Wolfskin
by Beloved-Stranger
Summary: "In the hands of Bright is the Banner of our Hiskapær, our Great Family, which needs no blood to sustain it, only love, kinship and the wearing of the skins. Under the Banner we bring Boromir, son of Denethor, and make him one of OUR sons..." AU from FotR
1. Skinned

**Disclaimer: **I own so little in this story it's actually hilarious. See if you can pick what's mine and what's Tolkien and Jackson's. Really, you'll crack up.

**Author's Note: **Alright, so. I came up with this whole debacle back in '09 and if you read it then you'll know it had a different opener, but while recently re-watching the movies I discovered that the movie dialogue implies that Faramir only found Boromir's broken horn and knew it meant his brother was dead. The flashback scene is filmed in such a way that it could be a dream of the funeral boat with Boromir inside it, instead of a dramatized memory. Which works out rather well for me, actually, so I'm running with it (artistic licence, yes please). I want this story to fit into Jackson's trilogy as seamlessly as possible, so I've overhauled it, tidied it up and am in the process of reposting.

In terms of my original motivations for writing this fic: the idea wouldn't leave me the hell alone, and to honest, I feel bad for Boromir. Dude got the sharp end of the stick and I figured he deserved a second chance… and I'm aware this falls into the category of the Boromir!LIVES fic, but I like to think this one does it with a bit of originality and reality (or so I've been told.)

**To Be Noted: **Not all names are taken from Tolkien's world, but rather from Norse, Gaelic, Old English and Old Germanic (and Sanskrit!) languages, the meanings of which will be given at the end of each chapter. Also, because delving into the Grand Master's world terrifies me…I'm going to mostly be delving into Jackson's instead (braces for impact of tomatoes) I know, I'm a coward, leave me alone!

* * *

**1: Skinned**

The Three Hunters stayed just long enough to watch the funeral boat disappear over the lip of the Falls of Rauros, engulfed in the spray and embraced by the foam, having no way of knowing what was waiting for it at the bottom.

They would not discover until a month later that the body of Boromir, son of Denethor, was never found…

…not by Men, at any rate.

**oOoOoOo**

At the base of the Falls stood a trio of grey shapes. One could be forgiven for mistaking them for hounds a first, at least until they saw the long, clean lines of their strong jaws and austere faces, the pricked ears and thick, smoky pelts. One was taller than his fellows with a thick black ruff about his chest and shoulders. Another had keen eyes and a glinting blue bead on a silver ring through her right ear. The third was clearly the youngest with his long, rangy legs and thinner ruff, but his face was narrow and thoughtful.

The three of them watched, amber eyes intent, as the funeral boat plummeted down upon a plume of water towards the river Anduin. Its prow disappeared with a great splash into the rushing waves, and in the same instant the black-ruffed wolf and the one with the blue bead also dove into the rapids and arrowed through the water towards the boat. When it broke the surface they drew alongside it, one to each side, and peered over to make sure it's contents was intact. It was, for the most part, though the Orc swords piled at its occupant's feet were in disarray and everything was sodden with river water…

One thing was missing.

Taking a great breath, the wolf with the blue bead plunged beneath the waves. She paddled down, eyes open and searching, searching…there!

She drove herself down further, enormous paws churning, and nosed amongst the grey stones and silvery sand of the river's bottom until there was enough of the shield's rim to grip with her teeth. Prize secure in her jaws, the wolf swam to the surface and made for the bank; her younger companion had come from the shore to relieve her at the boat's left side and the pair were even now guiding it out of the current.

The three of them made landfall together and were met by others; a grey-eyed southerner with a quiver on his back and a drawn bow in his calloused hands, an Easterling plainsman with a sabre strapped to his thigh and a northern woman with a handsome, angular face and a satchel at her hip. All three wore wolf-skin cloaks and grim expressions, and hurried to the boat when its prow touched the gravelled shore. They dragged it clear of the water, the wolves shoving from behind with their broad shoulders.

"We must move quickly," the woman said. "Too long and he will be beyond even our reach…"

At her direction the men lifted the body from the boat and laid him out on a spread blanket. The woman knelt next to the body and opened the bag at her hip, unrolling a length of leather that she laid beside her. In it were rows of pockets and sheaths, all housing a number of gleaming instruments in steal and silver. Using a scalpel and forceps she drew three arrowheads from his cold flesh, then cleansed the wounds and closed them with quick, precise stitches.

She touched the dead man's forehead, then looked up and said, "Call Sandric…"

The wolf with the blue bead stood with the shield resting at her feet; she looked up at a sky that had begun to blush with a pale sunset in the east and darken to indigo in the west. The stars were beginning to show themselves and to her eyes seemed to blaze blue and gold and white. She tipped up her muzzle, and gave a single sharp cry.

Under the eaves of the trees evening had begun early, and it was from this enclave of shadows that others in wolf-skin cloaks emerged.

A ragged figure stepped forward, supported by a young woman with a bow and quiver on her back, her golden hair in a thick braid over her shoulder. With shaking hands the hood of the fur cloak was drawn back to reveal a man in what appeared to be his late eighties, his hair a shock of near-white in the gloom. His eyes were cloudy, and his breath rasped past his worn and yellowed teeth, though each eye-tooth was still long and sharp.

"I am here, Faola," he wheezed as his two companions guided him to the body, "I am ready."

His aide took the cloak from his withered shoulder. She passed it to the bowman and helped Sandric to kneel beside the body on the opposite side to the healer. The men spread the cloak over the body and stepped back, expressions solemn.

Sandric put one gnarled hand upon the body's forehead, the other upon its heart. Faola covered his hands with hers and the old man began to speak in low tones.

"So has fallen a son of Men,  
Fallen is a knight of their kin,  
So here is one from our den;  
We offer one of our skin."

He paused, milked over eyes seeking out Faola's. She met his gaze and nodded. They spoke in unison this time, voices low, his richer than it had been in years, hers soft with grief.

"So has fallen a shield-bearer,  
And with honour was the falling.  
So to become a skin-wearer,  
Shield-bearer will heed the calling."

Now Sandric fell silent, and listened with clearing eyes as Faola spoke alone, her voice strengthening and taking on an intimate quality as she spoke directly to the body before her.

"So as you rise and follow  
And step back over the rift  
Fill up what was once hollow  
And accept our greatest gift…"

There was a fraught moment of quiet, the only sound the roaring of the Falls and the breeze moving the limbs of the trees…

Then Sandric let out a great sigh. His companion looked up, and for a moment she saw him as he must have been at her age; his hair thick and dark, his eyes bright and his smile as white and sharp as the ice that covers lakes in the depths of winter. Light seemed to fill him.

There was only joy and peace in his face as he said softly, "The bargain is stuck." He reached out and touched her cheek. "Remember me, but do not grieve ere long."

The wind struck up a dervish and the trees roared in its embrace. The light that filled him consumed him in a flash of white and when the rest could open their eyes again, the wind was bearing away a huge, spiralling mass of white sparks. It danced upon the air, arced across the river and blew over the hills, becoming lost amongst the emerging stars in the twilit sky.

Faola watched them, tears pouring down her face. Behind her, the soft sounds of sobbing could be heard from the others. The wolves bowed their heads briefly, before swinging their muzzles to the sky and howling a long, low lament. The young woman began to sing, her voice undulating with the wolves' howling, and before long they were joined by the others, the swelling chorus filling the darkening sky with grief.

Faola, however, stayed silent, her hands still in place upon the length of flesh and bone that was once a Man.

"Fill up what was once hollow," she repeated, voice barely above a whisper, "and accept our greatest gift…"

Beneath the wolf-skin cloak, the body began to twitch, and a hoarse cry rent the evening air.

Faola smiled.


	2. Woken

**Author's Note:** (blinks) Um, wow, okay. That was quite a response guys, thanks. I appreciate the lack of arse-kicking (earnest thumbs-up).

Ooh, and thanks to Lanjana, who caught out my amateur naming game. 'Sand' apparently just means 'sand', making Sandric mean, well, 'sand power'. Damn you, internets. I've been lied to and cruelly deceived!

…So I guess we're really doing this now, huh? Uh-huh. Well, hopefully this appeals. Be prepared though, you're about to meet the pack.

**

* * *

Woken**

At first, there were only grey shapes that swam across his vision, such as it was. They appeared as shadows, and moved like shadows; quick and smooth, without hesitation.

He looked about, and found that he stood shin-deep in a river scattered with stars. In this void, the river ran like black ink; a liquid darkness, where all else was velvet. The stars within it shone in pinpricks of rippling white and blue and gold, each tiny point of light fizzing and throwing sparks as though they were miniscule bonfires.

The shadows – dark blurs, like streaming banners of translucent silk – ran past him towards the east upon the surface of the river. As his vision cleared, he saw that they were great hounds…

No, not hounds.

_Wolves._

He drew breath to cry out, but as he did there was a howl from behind him.

He turned, looking into the flow of the river and the canines that ran with it, in time to see the huge wolf that bore down upon him.

It was not a shadow like its companions, but a glowing creature of white and silver, its eyes two points of hollow blackness, like the empty sockets of a skull…

He could not move, his legs were dead beneath him, and so when the creature met him it simply ran through him, never missing a beat. He felt as though a great wave of scalding water had hit him, needles of glowing heat covering him as he gasped. He felt full up with light, every limb tingling, his eyes hot with it.

When he staggered 'round, to look for the wolf that had collided with him, stepped through him, it was simply another shadow amongst the pack.

And when he looked down at himself, at his spread hands, they were limed with silver. He stared at them as they glowed against the deep, shifting dark, before the world faded again and he was sucked into blackness.

* * *

The next he was aware of was a monstrous pounding in his chest, his heart thudding like a drum, and the feeling of lying on something like a stretcher. There was a length of thick fabric laid over him, over his face, and he struggled for breath, crying out as his body twitched.

Someone pulled back the fabric and he looked up, eyes wide, into a woman's face. She smiled at him and stroked his cheek, whispering, "Welcome, Shield-Bearer."

He closed his eyes, exhausted, and fell into healing sleep.

* * *

Stars.

Stars again, though overhead this time, as they should be.

Boromir lay on his back, gazing up at them. He took a slow deep breath, feeling his lungs expand

_What has happened…?_

The intensity of the memory caught him by surprise.

Flashes. Images.

_Frodo's face, full of fear, crying out, "no, no! The Council laid it upon me to bear it." Fumbling for a grip on the Hobbit's ankles as they disappeared from sight. His own hoarse, raging cries, first railing against the Ring-Bearer, then calling him back…_

_The battle with the Uruks. The sound of his horn calling for help. _I will redeem myself.

_The arrows, slamming into him with the force of a fist…the hitch of blood in his throat, the sharp, ugly pain of the shaft through his chest…how heavy his sword became in that instant, and yet…and yet he had to protect the little ones…Merry, Pippin…the creak of the lead Uruk's bow as he drew it for the final shot…_

_Aragorn's face._

_And then the dark._

He lay still, breathless with the impact.

_I should be dead._

Lady Galadriel had been right; the quest had stood upon a knife edge, and had tipped into ruin.

"Idiot," he cursed himself aloud, breath misting on the cool night air, "you should be dead."

"That's an odd thing to tell yourself," a voice said somewhere behind him.

Boromir struggled upwards, sitting up and turning towards the voice, simultaneously reaching for a knife that wasn't there. There was a heavy feeling at his shoulders, and his questing hands encountered the warmth of a fur cloak, its inner lined with some familiar, light fabric. He felt for the clasp upon his upper chest, and by touch made it out to be the leaf brooch he had been given in Lórien.

Out of the dark a pair of eyes glinted back at him. He blinked hard, shapes swimming into focus, and he realized he could make out much of his surroundings.

It was a clearing, he saw, edged by the ruins of some ancient structure. At the centre was a wide, flat circle of flagstones, and in the middle of that a platform of weathered stone supported by four pillars. He could just see the stylized spread of carven eagles' wings over the lip of the structure.

Of course. Oh, _of course_; Amon Hen. This then, was the Seat of Seeing…

It was not this that took his breath away, however.

Around the broken battlements, in the lee of the pillars, upon the stairs to the Seat and huddled together in the grass, were grey-furred shapes. They numbered maybe five-and-thirty, Boromir guessed.

_Wolves._

_Again._

Or were they? Were his eyes playing tricks on him? Were they wolves, or a great many people in wolf-skin cloaks…?

The light seemed to grow, or maybe his eyes were adjusting further, for he saw a pale hand sticking out from under the edge of one furred heap, and a booted foot emerging from another. Some distance away, he made out a skein of dark hair, a woman's perhaps, and before him…

She sat perhaps ten feet from him, her legs curled beneath her with her fur cloak tucked warmly around her. Boromir made out long flaxen hair and bold features. A torc of knotted gold held the cloak closed and gold beads glinted where they had been braided into what would have been the wolf's ruff. He espied matching beads in her pale hair when she tilted her head to gaze at him. She couldn't have been more than twenty.

There were several sleeping bundles ranged around her, small ones…children, he realized. One little girl had her dark head in the elder's lap, and murmured fitfully in her sleep. The older girl stroked her shoulders, but kept her gaze levelled at him. The pupils of her eyes flashed the way an animal's does in the dark…

"_Should_ you be dead?" she asked, voice low.

Boromir found his voice. "I…I was shot…"

"Three times in the chest, yes, I saw. I watched our healer pull the arrowheads from you and stitch up your skin."

He put one hand to his ribs, feeling for a wound. It made no sense, though; he should be in pain. Something should hurt…

The girl smiled, teeth flashing. "Doesn't feel like you were shot though, does it?"

"No…" he frowned. "How? Who could heal such wounds?"

"Wrong question," the girl answered smoothly.

He stared at her, confused. "What…?"

"You'll find out later," she told him. "When Faola returns at dawn. What is your name?"

"Why do you ask?" he said, feeling unaccountably suspicious. Why he should feel that for a girl barely into her womanhood who sat with a child in her lap, he had no idea.

Then she tilted her head again, pupils catching and reflecting the meagre light like those of some night beast, and he felt the short hairs rise along his spine.

What was going on here?

The girl smirked. "We can hardly go about calling you 'Man of Gondor' or 'Shield-Bearer' in conversation. My name is Ylva. There now, I have told you mine, you must tell me yours."

"Is that so?"

"Fair's fair," she said stoutly.

"I suppose," he murmured. "Very well, Ylva, I am Boromir. Now, you tell me how you know I am a Man of Gondor, and one who bears a shield for that matter."

She shrugged, continuing to stroke the little girl's hair. "You came with the shield. It was with you when we found you. As for your lineage…well, you are not Rohirrim, that is for sure. And you do not strike me as a Ranger or being of the far northern ilk." She grinned. "And you are far too small to be a Beorning. I have seen them, and for all that you are a burly sort of Man, you not half as big as those woodsmen."

There was the sound of boots upon stone and a soft laugh. A figure emerged from the shadows, striding to them across the circle of paved stone.

"You will have to forgive Ylva," the figure said, revealing itself to be a tall man also in a wolf-skin cloak. His smiled, his teeth a blaze of white in his dusky face. "She is a great wit and an even greater shot, but her grasp of tact leaves a great deal to be desired."

As the man drew closer, Boromir began to make out more of him…enough to realize that it was not the lack of light that darkened his countenance. He was swarthy, with skin the colour of an almond's, rich black hair bound back from his face and ink-dark eyes that gleamed from beneath bold eyebrows. He wore a neatly trimmed beard upon his lip and chin, and though his garb was of the West, there was a curved knife at his belt that could only come from one place.

Harad.

This man was a Haradrim, a man of the South. What in Arda was he doing here?

Boromir nodded to him never-the-less and watched as he stepped lightly over the grass and crouched by Ylva, reaching out to run a hand over the dark hair of the little girl in her lap.

"How is she?" he asked.

"She slept better tonight," Ylva reported, "though she is still restless. At least the fever is gone."

"There is that," the Haradrim murmured. He smiled, then settled to Ylva's right and regarded Boromir. "So, Shield-Bearer, do you have a name?"

"I do," Boromir said, returning the steady gaze.

"Try offering yours first," Ylva put in.

The Southron gave her a sidelong look. "Yes, thank you, Ylva." To Boromir he said, "I am Mahir of the Ze'ev, at your service." He placed one fist atop the other and bowed his head.

"Boromir of Gondor's House of Stewards," Boromir replied evenly.

"See…" Ylva said in undertone.

The southerner's thick eyebrows went up. "The House of Stewards?" he murmured. "Well now…"

"Did I hear correctly, brother?" yet another voice said, and out of the shadows came another figure, another Southron.

He was younger than Mahir by five-or-so years, Boromir guessed, wore no beard and had a bow in hand and a quiver upon his left shoulder. Like everyone else, his cloak was a wolf-skin, which he wore clasped upon the right shoulder with badge of red and gold.

"We have one of the White City's Stewards amongst our number?" he continued.

"You did, Altair," Mahir answered. "This is Boromir of Gondor. Boromir, this is my brother, Altair, also of the Ze'ev."

Altair bowed in the same manner his brother had and grinned at Boromir. "A Steward. Now that is a fine thing. Though I'll happily wager you were more than that. There is 'military' written into your bearing sure as daylight."

Boromir shifted a little, unprepared for such an inquisition. "I was named Captain of the White Tower," he admitted.

"Ha!" crowed Altair. There was a grumble of object from across the clearing, but the younger Haradrim ignored it. "We have not had one so well mantled since you were skinned, my brother," he added to Mahir.

Mahir merely gave a small smile and did not deign to elaborate, saying only, "Am I to assume from your return that the way is free and clear?"

Altair continued to smile. "It is. Whether it will remain so is quite another matter; there are Wargs pouring from Isengard with stinking Orcs upon their backs and we found more of those filthy Uruk creatures fouling the water at the lake's edge."

"They are no longer a problem, I trust?"

"Unless they learn to think with their knees and breathe through their buttocks, I should say not," Altair replied jovially.

"And you all complain of _my_ lack of tact," Ylva said with a sweet smile.

Mahir sent Boromir a pained look. In that moment, they understood each other, and Boromir felt he had come upon a potential friend, despite the madness and deeply weird situation he found himself in.

Somewhere in the distance there was the sound of birdsong and then an answering trill at the eastern end of the clearing. The light was growing and the sky paling with the approach of sunrise.

"Faola will be back soon," Mahir murmured. He again exchanged a look with Boromir. "This must be strange and uncomfortable for you, but fear not. When our Lady Eir returns we shall sit for a council and all will be explained to you."

"May I ask, who is Faola?" Boromir said. "Who is the Lady Eir?"

"Why, she is our healer," Mahir answered. "She is the one who brought you back."

**

* * *

End Note:**

+ 'Ylva' is the Scandinavian form of Úlfa, meaning "she-wolf".

+ 'Mahir' is Arabic and means "capable".

+ 'Ze'ev' is Hebrew, meaning "wolf".

+ And 'Altair' is also Arabic and means "bird" or "flying".

+ 'Eir', for anyone who's wondering, was a Norse goddess of mercy and healing, but in this fic the Lady Eir is a title, not an indication of divinity. Clearly. I mean I'm not that frigging arrogant.

So. How're we going so far? Eh, please keep in mind...this is all unbeta'd. I'm so wonewy.


	3. Bound

**Author's Note:** I cannot tell you how happy the response to his fic has made me. I had no idea I'd been getting such great feedback, and it really makes working on this a pleasure.

With that in mind, I actually have another fic that I've been posting on blogger for an assignment (I know, _fanfiction assignment_) and I could really do with some feedback on it, since my classmates don't seem to be big on commenting. If you like, go and have a squiz and just let me know what you think by Private Messaging me, or feel free to comment if you've got a blogger account. For those interested I'll be putting the first chapter as my 'Homepage' link on my profile.

No pressure.

Now, on with the show…er…fic.

**

* * *

Bound**

The trilling of birds filled the lightening air, and Boromir turned his face to the sun.

He had never thought to feel its touch on his skin again, or see by its light and smell the earth warming under its rays.

And yet here he was…

Around he and his new companions the rest of the company were waking, each fur cloak yielding a sleepy-eyed face followed by much yawning and low grumbling. He watched them sigh as they climbed to their feet, stretching and greeting those around them. Some cast him looks of interest or curiosity, others offering a smile or a nod.

A woman with short, dark hair stood with a bow in hand and called out a few names as she swung her quiver over her shoulder. Three youths followed her, Ylva among them, gently transferring the little girl into Mahir's arms before retrieving her own bow and setting off with the hunting party.

"Off to catch your breakfast," she said with a grin, and took off into the woods.

Boromir saw now that she was not wearing a dress, as he expected, but a knee-length tunic and leggings. In fact many of the women and girls seemed to be. The length varied, and one or two wore a surcoat over a blouse instead, but out of the fifteen present only three women wore dresses. He did not know whether to be a little scandalized or admire their practicality. Wisely, he kept this particular thought to himself, and simply observed for the moment.

Packs were being dug out of their hiding places in the long grass and campfires set upon the stone circle where they would not risk lighting the surrounding scrub. Pots and pans were produced, and bundles of hard bread and cheese were unwrapped.

"Come," Mahir said, getting to his feet with the little girl still secured in his arms, her sleepy head upon his shoulder. "Bread and cheese first, meat to follow when our hunters get back."

He led Boromir to the closest of the campfires, Altair striding beside them. They sat, and were immediately handed slabs of toasted brown bread with cheese melting in between. Mahir in turn handed his to his brother, and began waking up the little girl.

"Asika. Come on, sweetness; it is morning, time for breakfast," he coaxed.

The girl let out a soft grumble and raised her head…and Boromir did not think he had ever seen a prettier child in his life. She was nearly as dusky as Mahir and quite clearly his daughter; Boromir saw him in Asika's high cheekbones and elegantly shaped eyes fringed with thick lashes. Her eyes were not dark like her father's though; they were blue and seemed extraordinarily bright in her dark face.

She gazed with curiosity at Boromir when she spotted him sitting next to her father, watching him as she chewed the bread and sticky cheese her father handed her, heedless of the crumbs and grease spots she was putting on his shirt.

"This is Boromir," Altair said, noticing his niece's gaze. "Are you going to say hello?"

Asika smiled, showing two rows of neat little milk teeth, before turning her face shyly into her father's chest. Altair laughed, and Boromir and Mahir smiled.

At the other end of the clearing, where the crumbling battlements were being overtaken by the woods and the ground dropped away to Amon Hen's steep sides, there was the sound of a sharp, canine bark.

Boromir frowned, peering about the camp; he had no seen any hounds. Had they kept their dogs quartered in the woods? Around him, he noted that many, including his companions, were looking in the direction of the bark, faces alert and interested.

"Faola is back," Mahir observed.

Boromir almost didn't hear him. He was transfixed by the creature that had just stepped out from under the trees.

The wolf moved forward with easy grace, the white guard hairs in its dark grey coat catching the sunlight as it walked out from under the shadows. It cut a long lean figure, brush of a tail held at half-mast, level with its back, ears pricked forward, continence completely calm. As it moved through the camp, stride long and even, totally sure of its welcome, Boromir made out the colour of its wide eyes; blue verging on grey, with a fault-line of green through the upper of the left iris. The effect was unnerving, giving the creature a penetrating gaze that, when it landed on him, seemed to strip his down to his bones and start inspecting them.

Already shocked to his core – there was a _wolf_, a _huge_ wolf, in the _middle of the camp_ – he was in danger of his heart giving out when the air around the wolf rippled, folded, and in mid-stride, the wolf stopped being a wolf and became a tall woman in a wolf-skin cloak.

Still, those same eyes took the measure of him.

She kept walking, that long, even stride never faltering, until she stood before he and his companions.

Boromir could only stare.

She smiled at his expression of shock and spoke, and he knew her face.

_Someone pulled back the fabric and he looked up, eyes wide, into a woman's face. She smiled at him and stroked his cheek, whispering, "Welcome, shield-bearer."_

"So," she said, voice low and smooth, "I think now you begin to understand. Mahir, I believe it is time to call council." Her strange eyes never left Boromir's face. "It is time the Shield-Bearer learnt what he is."

* * *

Ylva arrived back to find breakfast put on hold and the Hiskapær preparing for a council. Scouts were already being dispatched by Mahir to make sure they were not disturbed and the rest of the Great Family was gathering in loose knots of people around the circle of pavers, near the campfires. Some were still eating or sipping tea from chipped tin or ceramic cups, watching the proceedings – and the new Family member – with interest.

Ylva and the other hunters hung their kills beside one of the fires and settled with the rest. Gara sat beside her, the elder hunter's angular face alert as always, her short, wild brown hair tucked back behind her ears.

"What do you think will happen?" Ylva asked her.

"Predicting the reactions of the newly skinned is difficult, Ylva," Gara reminded. "And this new Shield-Bearer, this Boromir, he is something different from the rest of us."

"Because he is of a noble house?"

"Because he sat in fate's jaws," Gara murmured. "His destiny was a great one, and touched the great destinies of others. And yet he felt fate's teeth and thought his end had come. And we pulled him back. We remade him. He will not know his destiny anymore."

The two women fixed their gazes upon Boromir where he sat still as stone at another campfire. They saw his face in profile, white and intense, his eyes set unmoving upon Faola, who spoke to him in low, soothing tones. As they watched, he reached up to touch the leaf brooch that held his cloak closed. Faola smiled, perhaps a little sadly.

They were broken from their observation by the arrival of Altair, Asika in his arms and several other children trailing at his heels.

"Mama!" Asika cried, little arms reaching for Gara.

The grim lines of the hunter's face instantly rearranged into a wide smile to match her daughter's. "Hello, my sweet thing," she said. "Have you been good for Uncle and Papa?"

"She has," Altair answered. "She even managed a little breakfast."

"Now that is joyful news," Gara said, kissing the little girl's cheeks.

The rest of the children set themselves around their usual babysitter – Ylva smiled ruefully – and began to chatter. Coinín and Fáelán were together, as always, and both small boys clambered over the laps of others, heedless of the looks they received, to sit either side of Ylva. Fáelán, bless him, pulled a toasted cheese sandwich out of one of his pockets and offered it to Ylva.

"It was a drippy-cheese morning, and you missed out," the four-year-old informed her. "But I saved you some."

The sandwich was cold, of course, and the cheese had congealed most unattractively. There was also a bit of loose thread and some fluff stuck in it.

Ylva eyed it warily, but offered the small boy a grateful smile. "That is very kind of you, Lán, but I think I'll get a fresh one later, after the council."

(Who said she didn't have any tact? She just used it with people who deserved, like innocent children, thank you very much.)

Far from being offended, Fáelán shrugged, pulled the sandwich in half and offered one to Coinín, eating the other himself.

"Look," Coinín said, around a mouthful of sandwich, "the new man is all pale."

"Not with your mouthful, please."

Coinín swallowed noisily. "Sorry. Why is he all pale, Ylva?"

"I imagine because he is very surprised." Which was quite the understatement, but however…

Fáelán gazed up at Ylva with his grey northern eyes. "Is Mama helping him?" he asked.

Ylva looked over the paved stone circle, to the campfire where Faola still sat with Boromir. The Shield-Bearer's face was still wanting for colour, but he looked less likely to swoon or be sick now.

"Hopefully," Ylva murmured.

Around them, the Hiskapær came to attention as Mahir strode into the centre of the gathering. He stood for a moment, turning slowly to take them all in, his dark eyes fierce, solemn and direct. His circle came to completion as he stood facing the Lady Eir with Boromir beside her. Mahir stacked his fists and bowed, eyes lowered with respect, as was the healer's due.

"Lady Eir," he greeted her.

"Alfodr," she returned, placing the fingertips of her left hand to the top of her sternum and bowing her head.

"We begin," he said.

"We begin," she agreed, and there was silence in the clearing; the council was sat, and now their new leader would speak to them.

"I stand here," Mahir began, "as Alfodr for the first time. I stand here with this new mantle upon my shoulders, where it will lie alongside the one I bear from he who gave his life for my remaking."

He touched his left hand to the opposite shoulder, fingers briefly clasping the ruff of his cloak.

"Today, again, we grieve for one who gave himself away for another, but we also welcome that other into our Great Family."

He nodded to Boromir who, to his credit, returned the gesture without hesitation.

"Boromir, son of Denethor, is of the House of Stewards. He is a Man of Gondor, of Minas Tirith, and was named the Captain of the White Tower itself. He is a warrior, and a knight, and the bearer of a shield, just as Sandric was…Sandric, who gave his life for Boromir's."

Boromir's broad shoulders rose and fell sharply with that statement, and Ylva saw Faola lay one hand upon his arm and speak softly to him again. Boromir nodded, his colour slowly returning. Ylva smiled; he had stern stuff, this Man of Gondor.

"But all of that is before," Mahir continued. "This is now, and now we bring Boromir into the Hiskapær. He has been skinned, and now he will be bound and told the histories of our people. Of his people. Bright, Runa, come forward."

The Keeper of the Banner and the Storyteller got to their feet. Runa stood next to Mahir in the centre of the council, while Bright knelt before Boromir and Faola. Under the avid eyes of the Family, the Keeper opened his satchel and drew out the Banner.

"All know this now," Runa began, "all know this, and remember; in the hands of Bright is the Banner which was woven by the first skin-wearer, woven by Máni from her grey coat and her black hair and her white dress, set with the stars that she gathers around her.

"In the hands of Bright is the Banner that brought us out of savagery and slavery, called us back from death and drudgery, and binds us to our brothers, to our sisters and our friends.

"In the hands of Bright is the Banner of our Hiskapær, of our Great Family, which needs no blood to sustain it, only love of kinship and the wearing of the skins.

"All know this, and remember; under this Banner we bring Boromir, son of Denethor, and make him one of _our_ sons."

Ylva smiled, feeling that slow, sweet swell of warmth in her breast that the recital always brought, followed by the humming joy at the sight of the Banner itself.

It was not big, really, as banners went, but it was _theirs_; a length of sable silk that glinted with deep blues and indigoes, upon which the silhouette of a grey wolf ran. Stars – tiny, glittering glass beads – of blue and gold and white were scattered beneath the wolf's feet, while above her were depicted nine phases of the moon's journey from one new moon to the next in white thread.

With great interest, the Hiskapær watched as Bright drew his knife and slid the narrow tip under one of the threads of the full moon. There was an audible snick as the thread snapped and a soft exhale from the watchers as the Keeper smiled. He caught the loosed thread between thump and forefinger and gently pulled. A length of about twenty-five inches came free with no need for its end to be snipped, yet the embroided moon remained undisturbed. Such was magic of the Banner.

With lightning quickness, the thread was measured, cut and wound into a four-strand braid. Bright then held his hand out to Faola, who produced a blue bead from one of the pouches at her belt and gave it to him. The Keeper placed the blue bead on the Banner.

"The bargain is made," Bright murmured, though the clearing was so quiet that all heard it.

There was a minute flicker of movement, and Ylva knew the blue bead – Sandric's bead – had been bound once more onto the Banner.

A moment later, a white bead freed itself and rolled of its own volition into Bright's waiting hand. He strung the bead upon the white thread and gestured to Boromir.

"Which hand do you write and draw your sword with, sir?"

"The…the right."

"Ah, then I will be needing your left, sir."

Boromir held out his left hand to the Keeper. Bright gently pushed back his sleeve and wound the braided thread about his wrist, securing the ends with the surest of knots. As he did, Boromir's face slackened in wonder, the colour filling his cheeks again. His eyes lit up and he swallowed hard.

"It is done," Bright intoned. "He be bound."

"So be it," Runa said.

"So be it," Mahir echoed.

"So be it," Faola finished.

"So be it!" the Hiskapær roared in agreement, their voices trailing off into a great howl that raised the roof of the sky and would haunt the dreams of any who dared to listen.

Amongst the flurry of unified wolf-song, the great tumultuous noise, Ylva saw Faola place her hand upon Boromir's shoulder again as the Man of Gondor bowed his head, eyes closed and his right hand over his left wrist, tears pouring slow and silent down his face while a smile curled the corners of his mouth.

"So be it," she whispered, and rejoined the song.

**

* * *

End Note:**

+ 'Hiskapær' is the Old Norse word for "family" or "household".

+ 'Asika' is a Sanskrit name meaning "dagger" or "sharp" and is pronounced ah-SHEE-kah.

+ 'Fáelán' is an Irish Gaelic name meaning "little wolf".

+ 'Coinín' is Old Gaelic and means "little wolf" too.

+ According to Susan Price (author of _The Wolf-Sisters_) 'Gara' means "spear" and is _probably_ Celtic.

+ 'Runa' comes from the Norse word for "secret" or "lore", _rune_.

+ 'Alfodr' is an Anglicized version of Alföðr, one of Odin One-Eye's many names, meaning "Father of All." Funnily enough, Tolkien used the two aspects of Odin as the basis for Sauron and his polar opposite, Gandalf. In _Wolfskin_, I'm using it as the title for the leader of the pack. If the leader were a woman, she would be 'Almodr', "All-Mother".

+ In Norse mythology, Máni was the moon god and also a proper noun for the moon itself.

+ The description of Faola's eyes is taken from those of Fell, a character in David Clemet-Davis's novel _The Sight_. Which you should SO read.

Witness my gigantic end note and me playing fast and loose with Norse mythology. It's a rocking good time. So, how was it from where you dudes were sitting?


	4. Shaken

**Author's Note: ** So, here we go again. This time, Boromir's trying the fit of his new skin and discovering some rather interesting things about the circumstances of his skinning…

**

* * *

Shaken**

Oh, it was like _flying_. It made him remember being small, watching his uncle's hawks swoop and circle overhead as they hunted the fields for prey.

It made him feel…what was the word? _Younger_.

He felt so much younger, the distance eaten away by the extraordinary length of his stride, the vigour of his flying limbs, the air – the blessed air! – rushing in his wholly undamaged lungs as he ran.

At forty-one, Boromir had been beginning to feel his age; he was perhaps not as swift as he used to be, and there had been days where he'd swore he'd heard his knees clicking as bent them. Old injuries, like the wrist bone he'd cracked in his twenties and the broken leg that had almost gone septic when he was seventeen, were starting to catch up with him in wintertime, the cold seeping deeper and pulling at the nerves there.

But not anymore. Now he was remade, tucked safe inside this ageless skin…

He came to a rise and paused, drawing to a stop and standing with his head thrown back, worshiping the sun with his eyes closed and he jaws wide in a silent song. He shook himself, unconsciously playing the game of feeling for the seam where he ended and the skin began, even though Altair had laughed when he'd asked about and said of course there wasn't one. Taking another lungful of air, the world seemed to fill him up, each sense so much _more_, so much _richer_…

He could hear everything, smell everything, and while some of the colour was leeched from the world, the contrast was greater, so that the detail seemed…so much realer, so _immediate_. These, he realized, were true predator's eyes, designed to see the difference between the texture of swaying grasses and that of a rabbit's coat.

Boromir sighed gustily and took another great breath…

Hang on.

He came to attention, ears forward, eyes scanning the wilds of Amon Hen's woods, nose searching furiously.

There had been a scent; something familiar, even in this form…what was it…?

He caught it again and took off, feet flying over the leaf litter. The trail took him downwards, angling north along the western bank. Scattered, broken stone flashed past his peripheral vision and something else – Faola, in wolf form as he was.

He heard her footsteps falter somewhere behind him, felt a distant tingle up his spine that meant she had changed back and heard her voice calling his name, but ignored her.

He didn't know why, couldn't think why, but something drew him on. He should stop, should go back, but this was too _important_, the scent to achingly _familiar_…

Faola gave another desperate call of, "Boromir!" and then came after him again, yelping as she ran.

Boromir did not heed her, careening towards his quarry.

Then something drew him up sharp.

He froze, staring at the tableaux before him.

He was on two legs an instant later, chest heaving.

"I know this place," he breathed. "I fought here. Fought for Merry and Pippin…"

This was the clearing where he had died. The scent had been that of the Hobbits.

He looked down, eyes scanning the ground, and saw that there were still splashes of blood – his and that of the Uruk-hai – upon the fallen leaves, though no bodies to be seen. Broken arrows were upon the ground. A scrap of Hobbitish tweed was caught upon a nearby bramble.

Boromir felt ill – not only because of the lurid memories playing over the backs of his eyes, but because there was another scent here, other tracks upon the forest floor.

Just beyond the clearing were trails of wolf-prints and their spore was upon the leaves here, lingering on the air.

_Why_? Why would they have been here? Faola had said they found him in the boat, in the funeral boat his friends and comrades had made for him, the boat that even now was floating towards the sea with the remnants of his horn and the swords of his enemies. Why would they have stood here and watched him die when they could have helped…?

"Boromir…"

He whirled around, coming face to face with Faola. She stood there in her blue dress and wolf-skin cloak, strange eyes fixed upon him and her face white with some unnameable emotion.

She knew. She knew what he had found.

He was abruptly incensed. His fists clenched at his side, knuckles paling.

"What are you not telling me?" he whispered harshly.

"I have not lied to you," she said, eyes unwavering,

He snarled. It sounded strange in a human throat. "Then what are you keeping from me?"

She slowly shook her head. "Boromir, please…"

He roared and strode towards her, "Tell me!"

They stood very close, dangerously close, breathing the same air. Boromir held himself very still, taunt as a pulled bowstring. Faola's voice shook when she spoke and he perceived anguish parting her cool composure.

"There was nothing we could do," she said. "_Nothing_. The Hiskapær journeyed south, as far from the sounds and scents of Orcs and their ilk as we could. We could not – can not – risk encountering them, not with the children."

She looked up at him, eyes meeting his, and though it did not stem his rage, he saw how difficult this was for her.

"It was the sound of your horn that drew Sandric. A friend of his from long ages past was a Man of Gondor who told him stories of that horn and its previous carriers. He knew the sound and it drew him. He told Mahir to take the others and keep going, and he ran to you. Even as the last of his vigour was draining from him, he ran to you.

"I feared for him, so I followed, but by the time we got here the first arrow had struck, and there was nothing we could do. Boromir," she said, seeing the contempt upon his face, "Boromir, what could we have done? An ancient man and a healer with no weapon save her dagger? What could we have done against Uruk-hai?"

He closed his eyes, feeling the truth of her words, knowing that she was right; "You could do nothing," he acknowledged, "save die by the same hands that killed me." He opened his eyes and searched her face. "Is that why you chose to save me? To remake me? Because of Sandric's old friend?"

She gave him a small half-formed smile. Her eyes were glossy with unshed tears. He remembered abruptly that her former leader was not two days dead, and the grief still lay upon her and upon the whole of the Family.

"He chose you for your honour," she said softly. "Because though the arrows pierced you, you kept your sword and kept fighting for those who could not defend themselves wholly against such foes. Because you were a shield to them, as Sandric was to us. That is why."

"But did he know of my betrayal," Boromir breathed. "Did he know what I tried to do, to take?" His eyes crushed closed again in pain, the horror of his actions still sitting tight across his shoulders. "And he must have, if you were witness to my last moments and my words to Aragorn…"

He felt Faola's cool hand upon his cheek, just as he had when he had first woken back into the world, and opened his eyes, looking at her with surprise.

She gazed steadily back at him, earnest compassion softening her angular face, lighting up her strange eyes.

"It did not matter," she told him, voice low and gentle, meant only for him in this moment. "It _does not_ matter. You are redeemed. You know this." She slowly shook her head. "We can not go back and change what has been, and it does no good to linger upon those moments. There is only forwards, Boromir, and so forwards we must go."

"And go where?" he whispered, desolate.

She smiled. "Wherever we can be safe. Where the children can be kept from violence and horror. That is where we will go, if we can."

He sighed, reassured, and nodded.

Faola's hand slipped from his face, her palm briefly coming to rest over the would-be wound on his shoulder from the first arrow and where even now lay a set of her immaculate stitches, before she reached for his hand. He wrapped his fingers around hers and let her lead him back towards the camp…

Just before the passed under the trees Boromir turned and looked back, Faola following his gaze to the slope where the Hobbits' trail went, along with the Uruk-hai who took them. The trail was still fresh, he could still follow…

But there were also the trails of an Elf, a Man and a Dwarf; Legolas, Aragorn and Gimli had set out after the captured Halflings…and that was where their path was laid down.

But it was not where his lay.

He turned back to Faola and saw, to his upset, a faint note of doubt in her face; worry that he would let go of her hand, take his skin – Sandric's skin – and abandon the Hiskapær. That he would follow a path that was not his to take anymore.

He squeezed her hand and said, "Will there not be much to do at the camp, if we are to move on today?"

Her smile came back and she nodded. "Yes. Yes, there will."

She slipped her skin and stepped into the trees. Boromir did the same, following her back up the slope.

And this time, he did not look back.

**

* * *

End Note:** Nothing to add; I think this chapter speaks for itself. As always, feedback would be appreciated.


	5. Begun

**Author's Note:** So, here I am doing this instead of the novel I'm suppose to do. I'm a bad, bad little rabbit.

* * *

**Begun**

The camp was in a kind of organised uproar. Children ran helter-skelter, fetching and carrying for various adults as they went about making breakfast, having breakfast, cleaning up after breakfast and packing up the camp…all at the same time.

Boromir, having spent his life surrounded by military men on military campaigns, had never seen anything like it. As soon as he and Faola returned, she gave his hand a quick squeeze, offered him a smile and disappeared into the mass of the Family. Boromir stood upon the edge of chaos and looked on a little helplessly. Not for long though.

Ylva charged up to him with a small girl in tow. The little one had hair a brighter gold than Ylva's and eyes like blue ink spots, they were so dark. She looked up at him apprehensively. Boromir did the same.

"Can you braid hair?" Ylva demanded.

"Well, I – err – yes."

"Good. Frida needs her hair done. Be good," she added to the girl.

Boromir found a handful of ribbons thrust at him and the little girl prodded to stand in front of him. He looked up to protest, only to find that Ylva had done as Faola had done, and disappeared into the crowd.

"Can you really braid hair?" Frida asked him. She couldn't have been more than nine.

"Well," Boromir said, kneeling. "Yes; I used to braid my pony's hair when I was small, you know."

"Oh," said Frida, sounding uncertain.

"Ah," Boromir felt compelled to add, "and one of my cousins has a girl who is the same age as you, so sometimes I would braid her hair when I visited them."

"Oh good!" Frida cheered artlessly. "I don't know how to braid a pony's hair, is it very pretty?"

"I suppose…"

He began measuring out the lengths of ribbon. Frida turned her back to him and stood still as her combed out her hair with his fingers and wondered how he was going to manage without a brush (and a nanny to repair the damage). He sighed and decided to make the best of it… No doubt Ylva would turn up at some point and roll her eyes and growl at him and redo the entire thing.

He gathered Frida's pale hair into three haphazard bunches and began winding them across and across and across each other while listening to the little girl's steady stream of chatter…which, as it turned out, was a great source of information.

When one could figure out where one sentence ended and the next began.

"I know you are from Gondor –"

"I am."

"– and the Alfodr is from Harad, and so is his brother, but Gara is from Dunland, like Runa and Gifu, and I am from Rohan and so is Mama and Ylva and Coinín, and Sköll, but Sköll is from Eastfold, and we are from Westfold – oh! – but Ylva is from the Snowbourn (which is a little river), or a village near there…"

She trailed off, sounding a little puzzled.

"…I think. No one talks about it or anything. Someone was sick, or everyone was, I'm not sure…"

Boromir glanced up from his work, finding Ylva in the rush of grey cloaked figures. She was crouched beside a large bowl of steaming water, briskly going about giving two small children quick standing baths. The girl was laughing as she went about her task, carefree and bright-eyed. There was no hint of sad or sinister history about her, not in her brilliant smile, or her light laugh. Faola was nearby, though and something…well…

"What about Faola, Frida?"

The little girl turned, looking back at him with big dark eyes. "The Lady Eir?"

Boromir nodded.

Frida thought about this, button nose screwing up. "I don't…I don't know. Faola doesn't talk much about her home and Fáelán was born in the Hiskapær."

Boromir frowned. "Fáelán?"

"Faola is Fáelán's mama," Frida told him, as though it were perfectly obvious.

"Oh," said Boromir.

"Anyway, Faola was part of the Family for years and years and years before any of us came, well, except for Sandric and Runa and Bright and Swift… Boromir?"

"Yes, Frida?"

"Have you finished braiding my hair?"

"Err…well…"

He had, after a fashion. It was nothing spectacular, but it was serviceable, and looked more like what he had done to his childhood steed's tails than to his small cousin's dark tresses. Still…

"Which ribbons would you like?" he asked.

"Oh, the light blue today, since it is sunny."

Boromir wasn't sure of the logic, but dutifully tied the pale blue ribbon about the end of her braid. "All done."

"Thank you!" She turned to him and tilted her face at him expectantly.

"Err, you're welcome." He gazed at her, puzzled.

She gave him an exasperated look. "Kiss!" she said, turning her left cheek to him again.

"Oh! Oh, of course, my apologies." He bent and gave her a gentle peck.

It earned him a smile. "Your whiskers tickle. Come on, we have to go help with the dishes now!"

"We do?"

She grabbed his hand and tugged him in the direction of the campfires. "Yes!"

The rest of the morning passed in a blur for the former knight. He washed and packed dishes with Frida, who continued to talk, and Fen, a young man who didn't talk much at all beyond, "I'm Fen. I hunt."

Then there were clothes to be packed, and food to be wrapped, and the shoes of small children to be fitted and laced…

After all this bustle, Fen led him to the platform that housed the Seat of Seeing. There he showed Boromir the little forge that hand been set up by Rand, a Dalesman, and it was here that his shield and sword were returned to him. The gold belt he had been given in Lórien had been sent over the Falls of Rauros with the remains of his horn, so a hand-me-down sword belt of stout black leather was found for him, as well as a set of greaves.

"If you need new boots and such, come and talk to me," Rand told him.

"Rand's our cobbler, too," Fen put in. He smiled ruefully. "Everyone wears a handful of hats 'round here, too few of us not to."

Which was worrying to him. Boromir was a man of many skills, but they were the skills of military commander and nobleman…what use would they be to a pack of transient skin-changers trying to live quietly through a world-altering war?

He swallowed down the niggling worries, shook them from his skull and set to the task of helping Fen and Rand put out the fire of the forge and get the blacksmith/cobbler's gear travel-worthy.

Boromir silently marvelled at just how tidily the whole operation could be packed up… Although it made sense; the Hiskapær had no horses – there was some mention of them being skittish around wolves, be they skins or not – so every item was to be carried by a Family member. It was similar in some respects to how the Fellowship had run without the aid of Bill, his baggage distributed amongst the Nine Walkers as they made their way into the Mines…

"Steady, boyo," Rand said, hand on his shoulder.

Boromir blinked, finding himself swaying on his feet.

"Are you well?" the blacksmith asked, peering at him worriedly.

Boromir pinched his thumb and forefinger over the bridge of his nose. For a moment he had felt the loose stones under his feet, the cool night air. Smelt wet steel and sour flesh when the Watcher in the Water had attacked at the West-door. Heard the cries of the Hobbits and the savage, liquid roars of the Watcher…

"I am well," he murmured, "just…the memories…"

Fen and Rand exchanged a look.

"Aye, I remember," Rand said, voice low. "It's a strange thing. You'll have them for a while, I should think, though they lessen over time."

Boromir looked up. "Everyone has them? After their skinning?"

Rand nodded. "Of course. It is part of the remaking. Your old self and the new finding each other and fitting together – that is how Faola explained it to me, when I arrived. Do you remember, Fen…? Oh. I am sorry, my friend, I clean forgot."

The blacksmith looked shamefaced, colour suffusing what could be seen of his cheeks behind his great black beard.

Fen shrugged, then smiled when he saw Boromir's perplexed look.

"I was found in the wilds near Bree," he explained, "and I must have hit my head terribly, because I cannot remember a thing about myself before I was skinned. Not even my own name. Sandric named me; 'Fen', you see, for the one I was found in. I had no memories to come upon me, as yours are upon you."

Boromir was stunned – apart from the strangeness of the tale it was the longest speech he had heard from the boy. "I…I do not know what to say," he confessed.

Fen was reassuringly cheerful about it. "You need not say anything," he said, still smiling. "I, for one, cannot believe I had anything as good as all _this_ before I was skinned," he added tilting his head towards the clearing of the Seeing Seat.

Boromir followed his gaze, taking in the steady commotion of the Family. Children were dressed and given little packs to carry, favourite toys tucked into the straps or under little arms. Adults were shouldering their own larger packs over their cloaks, checking and rechecking, laughing and joking and some singing softly.

It was a chaotic scene…but a happy one.

"Almost ready," Fen murmured. He grinned, then in a flicker of folding air was on four legs instead of two.

Boromir found himself smiling; Fen was still grinning in his other shape, jaws open in a canine grin.

He turned to Rand and bussed the older man's hand with his nose.

Rand chuckled and picked up two of the smaller packs, showing Boromir how he buckled them together and slung them over Fen's back, like a set of saddlebags. The straps were neatly adjusted, going from a set of two shoulder loops to a Y-shaped chest strap, the tail of which joined onto a girth around Fen's middle.

Once the packs were settled, Fen shook his shaggy shoulders and showed Rand where to make adjustments by nudging the spot with his nose.

"There you are, lad," Rand declared. "Ready to go. Boromir, this is your pack for the day. It is good to have another set of strong shoulders around for this gear."

He clapped Boromir on the back with a grin, and the three of them came down from the platform, joining the others on the grass. There were several others in wolf form with saddlebags on their sides. Boromir saw one large male with a pair of toddlers in his open bags, both children swaddled in blankets and dozing as their carrier glided across the clearing.

Compared to his binding, there was no ceremony to the moving off; once gathered, Mahir tilted back his head, scented the air, and then nodded to himself, saying softly, "South."

The others nodded too, murmured amongst themselves, and off they went, heading back into the trees and descending down the other side of Amon Hen, circling the lake. The pace was steady, settled to allow the elder children to keep up while the younger ones were carried. Water sacs were frequently passed around, and teenagers could be seen darting off in pairs through the trees to refill them at the lakeside. Talk was kept to a low murmur, singing was done only softly and other than a contingent of Hobbits, there never was a crowd of people who could move so quietly through a forest.

Boromir walked with Fen and Rand, but not minutes after they set off Frida appeared and put her small hand in his, smiling sunnily up at him and either missing or ignoring all hints that she might better like to walk with her mother or siblings.

"Mama is having a grown-up lady talk with Gara and Runa," she pointed out sensibly, "and Coinín is boring."

"He is? How is that?"

"He is four," she said, with all the epic long-suffering of an elder sibling.

Boromir thought back to when his own brother had been four, and how much of trial that had been for him as 'the nine-year-old who apparently knows everything' (his tutors had _not_ been suitably impressed).

Faramir had followed him everywhere, asking every question under the sun and getting under foot. Boromir remembered shouting at him a few times after the younger boy had upset some project or prank of his. There had been tears and a scolding from their nurse…and yet half an hour later the two of them would have reconciled and taken themselves off on some adventure to conquer an unexplored part of the house.

He wondered what life was like for children within the Hiskapær; here there was no house, and the unexplored was the world that surrounded them everyday. There was real danger around each corner, running and roaring through the woods…

Boromir looked down at Frida gamely striding along beside him and gripping his hand tight when the ground was uneven, a look great concentration on her little round face. Her fur cloak was buckled at her collarbones with a large wooden toggle carved to look like a running pony… yet he knew that she would be easy prey for some marauding beast either as a girl or a wolf cub. It was then, with horribly clarity, that he remembered the Uruk-hai and could not fault Faola or Sandric for keeping the Hiskapær as far from their path as possible.

"Frida," a familiar voice said behind them, and Boromir turned to see Faola approaching them. There was a satchel swaying at her hip and a small boy – her son, Fáelán, he guessed – bound to her back with a sheet of faded grey fabric. His tousle-haired head lay on her shoulder, fast asleep. "Frida, you're mother would like you to walk with her."

Frida nodded, face bright and earnest. "I looked after him for you," she informed the healer.

Faola smiled. "Yes, I can see that," she said, glancing at Boromir, who suddenly realized Frida was talking about him. "Thank you."

"He was very good."

Rand cleared his throat loudly and Fen made a huffing sound that Boromir strongly suspected was a canine version of laughter.

"Alright, Frida. Off you go…"

"We will see you both later," Rand excused himself and Fen, the two of them moving ahead towards a group that included Altair and Bright.

"You sent her too 'look after' me?" Boromir asked dryly when they were all out of earshot.

Faola was unrepentant. "It was either Frida or Ylva."

"Ah."

"I thought you might say that."

There was a pause as they walked in companionable silence, before Boromir, unable to help himself, murmured, "You thought I required looking after…?"

Faola gave him a sidelong look. "You are still new, Boromir," she murmured. "There is no shame in that – we have all had to make those adjustments to our new state of being."

"Even the children?"

"Yes, though I think it is easier for them; it simply becomes part of growing up."

They walked in companionable silence for a while as Boromir tried to think of a delicate way to phrase the question that was bothering him.

Something of this turmoil must have shown on his face, because Faola murmured, voice lilting with amusement, "Ask, Boromir."

He looked up at her, managing to quirk a small smile in response to the one she wore.

"I wondered…" he began. "It is just that…you said that Sandric died for me; to give me his skin. And at the binding, Mahir implied that the skin he wears was given to him by one who died for him, also. Is it so with all skins?"

"In most cases, yes," Faola answered. "Boromir…"

"But, what of the children?" he asked. "I see that they are skinned, too. All of them, right down to the toddlers. Who died for them?"

Faola sighed. "It is… a complicated arrangement. In some ways, it is a mystery even to us how it happens… All we know is that fate seems to keep our number from swelling beyond forty. Some die and leave their skins. Some leave for other lives, though it is rare. Others…others are cast out." She cast her eyes down, but Boromir caught a glimpse of reflected horror there. "It is a terrible thing to be cast out."

From the tone of her voice, Boromir did not doubt it, and so did not ask. "They leave their skins," he said instead, "and those are given to children that are born to the Hiskapær?"

Faola nodded. "And to those who arrive with their parents. Like Frida, and Ylva, when she was small."

"And Asika, when she was born," Boromir added softly, thinking of the tiny jewel-eyed girl.

"Exactly." Faola said, turning her face and smiling as her son's dark hair brushed her cheek. He remembered Frida saying that Fáelán had been born into the Hiskapær as well, and then wondered what happened to the boy's father…

Boromir took a deep, settling breathe.

"Are you well?"

"It is simply…a lot to take in. We live a strange life, don't we?"

"I suppose," Faola said, "though it is not without advantages."

She tilted her head forward, and Boromir saw that they had rounded the lake now, and come to the Falls of Rauros. The path through the trees that they had followed was no more than a game-trail and came to an abrupt end where the ground fell away, becoming the rocky cliff down which the falls cascaded and roared. It was studded with sparse patches of grass and scrubby trees, and though there were a few ledges there was no pathway down that a Man, or Dwarf, or Hobbit could follow. Boromir decided that even an Elf would struggle to scale it.

This did not appear to be a problem for the skinned.

Already, those ahead of Boromir and Faola were slipping from two feet to a better balanced four and making their way steadily down the cliff face, pausing upon a ledge to slip back to two feet in order to have something – a child or a pack – passed down to them. It was a sort relay action, Boromir saw, moving from one form to another to safely transport the Family down the otherwise impassable terrain.

Beside him, Faola was waking up Fáelán. The little boy blinked sleepily, peering around with eyes as dark blue as his mother's though without her distinctive green fault-line. His gaze fastened on Boromir.

"You're the new man," he said, his small voice high and clear as a Hobbit's.

"I am," Boromir said, smiling.

"You were very pale before," Fáelán told him with the remarkable lack of tact Boromir was beginning to suspect was a Family trait.

Over her son's head, Faola gave him a faintly pained look. Boromir simply smiled back, highly amused.

"Well," he told the small boy, "I was very surprised by all the new things that were happening."

"Ylva said that too," he was informed. "I thought you were going to be sick."

"Lán," Faola interrupted, before Fáelán could elaborate, "you need to hang on now, love, we are going down a big hill."

"Yes, Mama."

With that, Faola slipped down onto four feet, Fáelán still clinging to her back, and began to make her way nimbly down the cliff. Boromir watched for a moment, finding the path with his eyes, before getting Rand to help him adjust his pack and following the rest of the Family downwards.

* * *

**Authorial Note:** Okay, so, first off epic, _epic_ cuddles to Shipwright's Trick who left me a huge bangin' review which totally salvaged my shitty I-have-to-work-and-its-raining-all-over-my-cute-sandshoes Saturday. Trick, you rock.

On that note, didn't get much of response on the whole Faola/Boromir issue except from Trick, so I think we'll just muddle through and see how it pans out. You never know, the pair of them could pull a Peggy/Sam and take matters into their own hands (damn them).

Anyway, on with the show.


	6. Espied

**Authorial Note:** Okay, so, first off epic, _epic_ cuddles to Shipwright's Trick who left me a huge bangin' review which totally salvaged my shitty I-have-to-work-and-its-raining-all-over-my-cute-sandshoes Saturday. Trick, you rock.

On that note, didn't get much of response on the whole Faola/Boromir issue except from Trick, so I think we'll just muddle through and see how it pans out. You never know, the pair of them could pull a Peggy/Sam and take matters into their own hands (damn them).

Anyway, on with the show.

**

* * *

Espied**

They were roughly three quarters of the way down the cliff when Boromir heard it.

Lupine, he lifted his head, tilting his muzzle skyward, ears swivelling to try and pin the sound. A rushing, hissing sort of noise, he thought, beating against the air like…

"CREBAIN!"

It was the Gap of Rohan all over again. Boromir was two legged in an instant, snatching up Fáelán from where the little boy had stood beside him on the ledge and tucking him into his chest.

"Here," Faola gasped, grasping a handful of Boromir's sleeve and darting to a patch if scrub overhanging the ledge. They went to their knees, skidding in their haste to conceal themselves. Above and below them on the cliff side, Boromir could hear the hurried scuffle and scrape of feet and paws as the rest of the Hiskapær ducked for cover.

There was a moment's awful silence and then…

The air was rent with the harsh cawing voices of crebain crows, their wings thrashing the air like the beat of fists against flesh as they appeared over the lip of the cliff and spilled downwards. Dozens of ragged shadows shot about over their heads, casting dizzying patterns upon the tumbled stone.

Boromir could feel Fáelán's tiny form shaking against his chest, the little boy's breath coming in soft sobs. He gathered the boy closer, breathing, "It's alright, lad, it'll be alright."

Fáelán buried his face in Boromir's neck. He could feel tears smearing against his skin and the collar of his shirt. Beside him, Faola's grip tightened on his arm as a crew of the birds swooped low over their bush, calling in their awful, raw voices. Both adults froze, betraying no movement save that of the cool breeze that stirred the fur of their cloaks. He watched, heart fairly roaring in his chest as the birds passed back and forth over them…

But after what seemed like an age, the crebain coalesced again, reforming into a near solid mass of black feathers and claws. The Family watched, hearts in their mouths, as the savage avian cloud sped back over the top of the cliff, wheeling west-by-north-west.

"Back to Isengard, no doubt," Boromir muttered, "and their white snake of a master."

In his arms, Fáelán began to cry in earnest, breathing big wet gasps against Boromir's chest and calling for his mother. Boromir carefully delivered him into Faola's waiting arms before climbing out from under the scrub and getting to his feet. He reached down and helped Faola to hers, and both of them looked up and down the cliff face where others of the Hiskapær were cautiously emerging from their hiding places.

Ylva was standing on the ledge immediately below them with her bow drawn and a look of focused loathing on her face as she regarded the lip of the cliff where the crebain had disappeared.

"I could have hit them," she muttered.

Beside her, Altair shook his head. "Not all of them," he said. "And all it would take was for one of the little beggars to get away home with news of us to spell disaster for the Family."

"It would mean the end of us," Faola said softly. She signed. "Come, let us get down from here. We must go on."

* * *

"Are you all mad?" Sköll demanded. "We must go _back_!"

Boromir manfully restrained himself from strangling his fellow shape-changer and looked around the circle solemn faces that made up the Hiskapær's elders. Mahir, Faola, Bright and Runa were there, of course, joined by Boromir, Altair, Gara, Rand, Sköll and a handful of others whose names he did not know yet.

They stood amongst the trees at the bottom of the falls while the children were minded by the young people beside the river. He could hear giggling and splashing, and Ylva's voice raised above the gaiety, trying to keep them from getting soaked.

A feeling of faint nostalgia caught him, and he remembered the first time, as a youth, that he'd sat in on one of his father's defence councils while Faramir had been off with their cousins, riding out on some jaunt. There had been envy on both sides that day, though neither would admit it.

He found himself feeling similarly to that day, and after so many months of torrid, blackening emotion and violence, Boromir would have given a lot to be one of the ones watching the children play while weighty matters were discussed by the adults. However, it was not to be; his expertise, Mahir had decided, was needed in this matter.

"Go back where?" Altair demanded. "Back up the Anduin? Straight into the occupied territories?"

"They're not occupied yet," Sköll said.

"But they will be," Gara replied. "Saruman has been working his foul oration upon Dunland for years now. Their loyalty lies with him, and it is only a matter of time before he sends them and his own forces across Rohan."

"But Rohan's forces are strong," Sköll insisted. "We know Saruman has only Orcs and Wargs, and they cannot touch Rohirric steeds for speed."

"A great force is only as strong as its commander," Boromir murmured. "And one of my company suspected that Théoden's court had been infiltrated, perhaps by one poisoned against his own people. With the wizard's strength and cunning over the minds of others behind him…"

He looked up, making sure to meet the eyes of those around him, trying to impress that this was a grave worry. "Théoden could be convinced of many things, all to Saruman's advantage. He will have spies there, of that have no doubt."

"And if we are discovered by him," Runa added, her milky eyes still unerringly finding their faces, "it will be the end of us. He will conquer us for his own means or crush us if he cannot."

"Aye. An' heading back the way we came is too dangerous," Bright agreed. "We certainly can't go back upriver."

"But if we could just make it back to the Beorning territories –"

Mahir shook his head. "They have not the resources to keep and feed us, even with our labour added to theirs. The trade routes are either destroyed or besieged as are their lands."

"It's why we left, remember?" Rand put in.

Sköll subsided into ill mutterings. "It does not matter," he snapped. "Our path takes us to Mordor in any case."

Boromir drew himself up at this, casting furious eyes over his companions. They could not be serious!

"You will watch your tongue, Sköll," Mahir said sharply. "I have not the least intention of taking our Family anywhere near the Black Land, and you well know it."

"Close enough," Sköll said sourly, apparently incapable of keeping his mouth shut, or indeed, be in any way pleasant. "If we keep following the river we will be lead directly into Ithilien, and who knows what will be lying in wait for us there?"

"My brother and his men, no doubt," Boromir said, quite without meaning to. The thought had occurred to him suddenly, and fallen from his lips a second later. Finding the others starting at him questioning he felt the need to elaborate. "My younger brother, Faramir…he is Captain of the Rangers of Ithilien. He will be Captain of the White Tower now, as well, since I am gone."

"What has this to do with us?" Sköll asked, all suspicion.

"Faramir is as fine a warrior as any man I knew," Boromir said, voice firm, "and a great leader of men. He will defend Ithilien to his last arrow and sword stroke against Mordor's forces. We will have a safe passage through that land, if that is whence we shall go."

All eyes turned to Mahir, who stood solemn and silent, his thick dark brows drawn down in thought.

"Alfodr," Faola asked softly, "it is still your intention to reach Haram Ze'ev?"

Mahir nodded. "It is the only place we may keep the children safe from the reaches of the war." He sighed. "We go on."

The council dismissed, Boromir walked with Faola and Runa as they made their way to the river to retrieve their baggage and the children.

"Lady Eir –" he began.

"Only in the circle of meetings," Faola said, smiling, "though your manners do you credit."

"I thank you," he said, tilting his head in something of a casual bow, "but I meant to ask –"

"It's a sanctuary, you know," Runa said, apropos of nothing as she gazed at him with those strange, gossamer-pale eyes.

"I'm sorry?"

"Haram Ze'ev," the Storyteller continued. "It's a sanctuary in the Haradric desert." When Boromir could only stare back at her she raised her eyebrows 'til they nearly touched her whitening hair. "That _is_ what you wanted to know, was it not, Shield-Bearer?"

Boromir continued to stare, perplexed. "Ah, yes. Yes, it was, but how did you know…?"

"Oh I always know when there are stories to be told," she said, flipping a dismissive hand. "It is my job to know such things. I can smell them, you know. Stories, I mean. Like wood smoke upon a winter breeze. Come," she added, "walk with me and I will tell you of the Haram. I do not mind telling it again and the children always wish to hear of it, since we are going there and they have not seen it."

And so Boromir found himself helping the healer and the Storyteller gather up the little ones as they began the second leg of their journey down the Anduin, walking with Fáelán bound to his back as he had been bound to Faola's and Frida's small hand tucked safely into his larger one.

Privately, he suspected Faola and Liadan (Frida and Coinín's mother) were having a quiet laugh at his expense since their young ones seemed to have shanghaied him so completely.

He could not bring himself to be offended, however; his small companions had the happy manners that reminded him favourably (and perhaps a little sadly) of the Hobbits, and Runa was as good as her word, spinning the chronicles of the Haram Ze'ev around her rapt listeners like a master weaver spins a rich tapestry…

**

* * *

AN2:** bit of short one, I know, but the next will be the story of the Haram Ze'ev as told by Runa (and with various asides from her listeners, lol). 'Haram', by the way, is the Arabic term for a sanctuary or sacred, forbidden place. 'Ze'ev', as you know is a Hebrew name meaning 'wolf'.

'Liadan' is, and I quote, an _Irish Gaelic name derived from the word _liath_ "grey," hence "grey lady." In legend, this is the name of a poetess_.

As always, review jammy babies.


	7. Spoken

**AN:** I don't even have words for how sorry I am that its taken me this long to update this fic. All I can say is that RL as been taking me to task and I can only apologise by posting this stupidly long chapter and hoping no one assassinates me with a fork or something.

* * *

**Spoken****  
(or 'Whistler and the Sanctuary of the Wolf')**

_Now, in the days after Máni had stepped from the world – mayhap rising back to the stars from whence she came, or perhaps going across the earth to places Men cannot walk to and further than a wolf can run – in the days after she disappeared, her skin-daughter Whistler took up the mantle of Almodr._

* * *

"'Whistler'?" Boromir whispered to Frida. "That is a strange name."

"Not in the Hiskapær," the girl said earnestly. "It was because Whistler was so fast."

Boromir frowned, looking a question at Faola. Faola smiled.

"When she ran," she said, dark eyes somehow wistful, "it was so swiftly that the wind whistled over her shoulders."

"Indeed," Runa continued, giving them all an imperious look for the aside. "Whistler was the first to be named in such a way within the family, but not the last, as you see with Bright, and Swift, and young Fen. In any case…"

* * *

_In those days, there was war, as there always seems to be with Men, and no shortage of hunters eager to hunt down wolves – even those who sometimes walk on two legs instead of running on four. And so Whistler gathered her Family close to her, and set about looking for a place to hide them until the worst of the conflict died._

_They went hither and thither, and all in vain, for people were covering the land, clearing woods and building farms and cities and making laws, and breaking them soon after. Slavers trawled the coast, eyes ever watching for the unwary to be snatched up and sold into service. Whistler, herself a freed slave, could not abide the company of the unskinned, and though she loved the sea it was no longer a safe thing to be near. Men, in general, were no longer safe to be around._

_One day, as she sat wolf-shaped upon a little mountain ledge, the Hiskapær sleeping in the cave behind her, she heard the beat of broad wings and looked starwards._

_An Eagle came to rest at the edge of her ledge and stood there, watching her with wide golden eyes. Eagles, as you know, are not fond of wolves, but they have always been able to tell the skinned from true wolves, and this Eagle was no exception._

_He tilted his head to one side and asked Whistler, "Why do you weep, wolf-daughter?"_

_Whistler shook her head, despairing._

"_We have nowhere to go, wind-rider, and I fear for the lives of my Family should we remain in these realms so full of people and their wrath."_

_The Eagle ruffled his feathers._

"_Nowhere to go?" he said. "But that is ridiculous! There is always somewhere to go. If it is a place without people you want, then it is to the South you must go. Very, very far south, where the sun is always hot and the water runs only underground."_

_Whistler regarded the Eagle very seriously, her silver head kilted to one side. "No people?" she queried. "No people, really? But how can that be!"_

"_There are no people," the Eagle said, "because they cannot smell the water to find it under the sand. But you could, wolf-daughter, you could find it with your fine nose."_

* * *

"And it was true," Runa said. "Still is today."

Boromir frowned. "But there are people in the South. The Haradrim –"

Runa barked out a laugh. "Oh, no, Master Shield-Bearer, Haradrim there maybe but even they cannot subsist on sand-tussock and beetles and leaper-mice, which is all there is to be found above ground in the Great Desert. Not even the caravan trails brave the Dune Sea."

She grinned, showing faintly yellowed teeth, long canines glinting.

"But Whistler did."

* * *

_In the weeks that followed, Whistler plotted the Family's route to the Great Desert._

_The Eagle, whose name was Elidyr, found maps for her and spoke to her of the landscape ahead of them. As the weather worsened, he would swoop into the cave with the Hiskapær and roost upon a shelf of stone above where Whistler slept._

_The days worn on, the storms raged… But one night, a week before the beginning of spring, Elidyr flew into the cave scattering rain from his wings and said to Whistler, "The weather breaks. Soon it will be time for you to go."_

_Whistler looked at him, her head tilted to one side as his had done the day they had met. "Will you not come with us, wind-rider?"_

_Elidyr watched her silently for a few minutes. Light from the low-burning fire near the cave's mouth glinted upon his bronzy plumage, and in his golden eyes._

"_Yes," he said eventually. "Yes, I think I will."_

_And so it was forty wolves and one Eagle that made their way down from the mountains the next morning. They took the game-trails along the Great River, creeping like grey ghosts through the deep woods while Elidyr flew above. Once, they were nearly set upon by goblins, but the Eagle called a warning down to them, and with terrible fury Whistler and her warrior-brothers slew the band of monsters before they could so much as lay eyes upon the children._

_On and on they went, down the Anduin until they came to the edges of Harondor and saw the great golden expanse of the Dune Sea laid out before them, the curves of its dunes like the rise and fall of great waves._

"_Here you must be wary," Elidyr warned the Hiskapær, "for the Dune Sea is like any other ocean; forever shifting with the winds and unpredictable in her moods. You can drown in sand as easily as you can in water."_

"_This is madness!" cried the elders._

"_This is our only way forward," Whistler said, her voice like steel. "Madness is what prevails upon the lands of Men, and while it does we cannot be present in them. In the lands of the sun we may have some form of peace."_

_The elders fell silent, and humbly bowed their grey heads._

_Elidyr rose on silent brown wings and with his fine golden eyes began to guide them over the Haradwaith._

_It was a hard journey. Perhaps the hardest ever undertaken by our skinned predecessors. The heat was tyrannical and unrelenting during the long hours of the day, and in the broad waste of sand, eventually stretching from horizon to horizon, there was little shade to provide respite –_

* * *

"What about the water?" Coinín demanded from Liadan's back, scowling at the Storyteller with eyes dark and serious as his sister's. "You said they could go because they could find water. Where is it?"

Runa sighed. "Well…"

* * *

_In the evening the heat would fade, and deep, bone-touching cold would cover the desert. So harsh was this cold that in the early morning, before the unblinking eye of the sun rose, the Family would find frost upon the surface of the dunes. They would spread oilskins before they went to sleep, to gather the frost for drinking water when none could be scented below the sand._

_When they could smell water below them, they would wait until the cool of the evening and take turns to dig and dig and dig, until the precious liquid broke the surface and pooled around their feet. It tasted strange; salty and full of grit, and so the clever healer's daughter, Eira, found a way to draw the minerals from the water and make is sweet to drink._

_In the evenings, while the sun was ebbing but it was still light enough to see, they would hunt for leaper-mice and addax, but the further they went into the desert the less game there was to feed their aching bellies. Soon not even Elidyr with his far-seeing eyes could scout game for them, and their strongest diggers could not reach the water that lay beneath the sand; it was too deep, running below the desert's bedrock. And yet still, they pushed on, and on._

_Then one day, Vulfolaic the dancer was out scouting with his brothers. They had found a collection of large stones that looked as though they had been tumbled together by a great force, and were surrounded by a stand of short, weathered trees, bare of leaves. They padded amongst the stones, climbing over them and sniffing for animal life. They could find nothing, but suddenly, Vulfolaic called out; he had smelt water!_

_His brothers hurried over and they began digging, but the stone was too hard and became strangely hot under their feet. They yelped and leapt away, Vulfolaic crying out, "Why can we find no aid? Will there be no help for us?"_

_To their surprise, lines of silver appeared on the stones – not script, but beautiful patterns; like stars caught in a spiralling net of light. There was a mighty grinding noise, and one of the stones rolled away to reveal a passage. Vulfolaic sent his brothers back to the Family to get them and tell them of this development, before tentatively setting forth to explore the passage._

_It was not a simple cave, but a ghautt – a deep well leading down below the desert itself. Down and down the passage spiralled, and stronger and stronger became the smell of fresh water._

_Soon Vulfolaic's brother's caught up to him and they trotted all the way to the bottom of the passage, emerging into a long stone tunnel that wound away into the dark; north-west to the right and south-by-south-east to the left. A deep, dark river rushed down the centre of its floor and the ceiling that rose vaulted above them appeared to be studded with glowing green and blue stars –_

* * *

"Were they _really_ stars?" Fáelán chose this moment to interrupt.

Runa, with great patience, shook he grey head. "No, my dear, they were not."

"You can't have stars underground, anyway," Frida said, with all the scorn a nine-year-old can muster. Her mother reached around Faola to tug her braid in rebuke. Looking suitably chastened, Frida listened with the others as Runa explained.

"They were cave worms, children," (Frida made a face and Coinín commented on how much he liked worms – what for, Boromir could not bring himself to ask) "Tiny little worms with glowing tails that had spun themselves silk nests and sewn them to the ceiling of the cave…"

* * *

_They were glad of the cave worms, as their light was just enough for wolves to see by._

_Whistler had the Family set up camp beside the piled stones, and while the children slept called a council. There was immediate dissent._

"_Almodr," said Isangrim the grey-masked, "we cannot go on in this way. There is no food, and no shelter, and the children cry themselves to sleep at sunset. Surely avoidance of the unskinned cannot be worth this suffering."_

_Whistler shook her head. "There can be no greater pain than enslavement. And it is not for naught that we have come so far; upon the maps brought to me by brave Elidyr there is an oasis marked. It is three weeks journey from here –"_

_An outcry of pain set up amongst the Family._

"_It is too far!" they cried, "we can take no more, Almodr, there must be respite! There must be mercy!"_

"_Yes," Whistler called out, over-riding their voices, "Yes, there is respite and mercy. Though before I thought it within our reach to travel overland to the oasis, I see that it is not so now. The Dune Sea is indeed a harsh and tyrannical place, and in the years since the first travellers found the oasis, the waterways have changed. It seems, instead of sitting in other oases above ground, they have seeped downwards, beneath the earth…and so shall we."_

_The lord healer, Bjorg asked, "What are you on about, young Whistler?"_

_But it was Managarm, Máni's skin-brother who replied. "I have seen the path, and I have seen the way, and it is forward. Forward, but not over. We will follow the underground river Vulfolaic has found."_

_In the moonlight, they all saw his eyes flash pale and bright and colourless as the face of the moon itself. Managarm, remember was the first Keeper of the Banner, and when Máni skinned him she gave him the gift of foresight, so that he might guide the Almodr as she lead the Family._

"_How shall we follow the river?" asked the Storyteller, Daciana._

"_Why," said Managarm, smiling, "we shall build boats."_

* * *

"_Boats_!" cried Coinín, bouncing upon his mother's back. "I like boats!"

"You like everything," Frida muttered, and Boromir bit his lip to keep from smiling. He almost laughed aloud when Faola caught his eye, herself fighting a grin.

"How did they make the boats?" Coinín demanded while his mother insisted he sit still or be made to walk.

Runa, who was by now resigned to constant interruption, dutifully answered.

"Well, remember the trees surrounding the piled stones…"

* * *

_Thirty days, they laboured, building those boats._

_They worked in the early morning, before the sun had truly risen, and when it had, they took what work they could with them into the cave and continued to work until the sun began to sink and the heat fell from the air._

_At night, when the desert was as cold as a snow field, they curled together upon the piled stones, which were always strangely warm. When Daciana sang or spoke with her lovely, liquid voice, the stones would light up with those silvery patterns so that the light pulsed to match the rhythms of her stories and songs. She named them Cerrig Siarad – the Speaking Stones._

_When the moon again waxed full, the Family was ready. Seven boats they had, built of the grey, leafless trees that surrounded the Cerrig Siarad and caulked with fat and hair scraped from their kills. Upon their sides Daciana painted running shadows, silhouettes of young wolves against the phases of the moon. Six of their prows Bjorg and Isangrim carved to resemble the heads of wolves…but the last bore the head of an eagle._

_As the others readied themselves and set the boats into the underground river, Whistler stood at the mouth of the cave, and spoke with Elidyr._

"_Will you come with us?" she asked softly._

_But Elidyr bowed his head and shook out his wings. "I cannot, wolf-daughter, for to be so long separated from the sky would surely drive me mad. Though I have come to care for you greatly – you and your companions – an Eagle's place is upon the wind, not beneath the sand."_

_Perhaps it was the shifting of the strange desert light, but for an instant, beneath Elidyr's feathers Whistler thought she perceived the shape of something. Something like a man…_

"_Fare thee well, dearest of friends," the Eagle whispered, and threw himself into the sky even as Whistler reached for him, a cry of 'wait!' upon her lips._

_In mere moments, he was a tiny speck upon the brilliant blue of the desert sky…_

* * *

"So, Elidyr was some kind of shape-changer as well?" asked Fen, who, along with Ylva and Rand, had joined them around the time the boats were being built.

Runa gave him a look that could have frosted glass at a dozen paces. "That is for me to know," she said, "and you to find out."

"Yes, ma'am," said Fen.

* * *

_And so the Hiskapær journeyed down into the darkness._

_Beneath the sands of the Dune Sea, their only light was from those provided by the cave worms above them, and the glitter of the stardust that Máni had scattered in Vulfolaic's coat. He sat in the prow of the first boat beside Whistler, casting a soft, steady light upon the black waters of the river. In the shadows beyond his reach they could hear the drip-drip-dripping of water and the rushing of the river – sometimes a whisper, sometimes a roar that filled the stone tunnel._

_They passed the days and nights counting the hours from dawn to dusk with the lighting and capping of their lanterns. Sometimes they would pass into a cavern, the tunnel widening hugely so that the river became a small lake. There were three of these, each roughly four days apart, and each with a small sandy shore where the boats could be moored and cook-fires could be built. From these lakes they caught strange, pale fish with big blind eyes._

_One day, they awoke to a deep rumbling coming from the tunnel ahead and the boats shuddering as the river waters trembled with the force of the sound._

"_What was that?" cried Eira._

"_An earthquake?" asked one cub._

"_A cave in!" gasped Daciana._

"_No," said Isangrim, his solemn, masked face considering, "no, that sounded like a roar to me. Like some kind of beast."_

"_We must go back," one of the elders said urgently, and there were cries of agreement up and down the line of boats._

"_We cannot," Whistler said grimly. "The boats cannot be turned about here and we cannot paddle them backwards; the current is too strong."_

"_And we must not," Managarm murmured, "I have seen the path and I have seen the way and it is forward. We must continue."_

_And so forward they went…_

* * *

Runa paused, gazing about at her gathered audience and waiting for the expected interruption…

None came. They all gazed back at her expectantly.

Runa smiled, and continued.

* * *

_A day and a night later, it happened again, and this time a smell came with it._

_Putrid it was, an awful rotten smell, like meat left to go bad in the sun, and sure enough the air that carried the scent was warmer than the cool, damp cave air._

_While the other comforted the children and readied their weapons, Managarm said to Whistler, "We are coming to the end of the tunnel. You must be ready, Almodr, ready to fight. We are to face a foe beyond anything we have ever faced before."_

"_Can you name it?" Whistler asked urgently._

"_No," Managarm said, "beyond its menace laying heavy upon my mind, I give no more light to its nature."_

_They did not have long to wonder what awaited them; in a moment, the first boat – Whistler and Vulfolaic's boat – emerged into a final cavern. It was easily five times the size of its predecessors, its arcing ceiling studded with dripping stalactites and its great height vying with that of dwarf halls. The lake that covered its floor was wide and dark and deep, but at its centre was an island of raised rock and earth. In the darkness, lit only by Vulfolaic's coat and their lanterns – for here the cave worm's little lights were too faraway – they could see the glint and glow of gold and silver and jewels, much of it dirty and battered…but amongst these pretty shapes they could make out the shadowy outlines of scattered bones._

_This was not cause for concern, however._

_The creature crouched upon the island's centre was though._

_The dragon was not large as dragons go, though he was long, like a snake, with bands of black and red and yellow down his body. His wings were a black ruin and lay down his back in tatters, like the torn sails of a great ship. In the meagre light they could see long red scars across his sides and through one of the massive yellow eyes. When he espied them, it was with the unscarred eye._

"_Who are you," he roared at them, "to come into my chamber? Thieves! Thieves have come to take my gold!"_

_Smoke coiled from his parted jaws, his teeth glinting like long ivory knives._

"_We are not thieves," Whistler cried out. "We are travellers! We seek only shelter!"_

"_Lies!" shrieked the dragon, and it sounded like sheet metal being torn apart. "Liars and thieves! All who come here are liars and thieves – lying to me to steal my gold!"_

_He laughed, and the sound was strangely high and wild. Whistler and the others quickly realized that this dragon was not like other dragons – there was no cunning in his manner and he had not tried to be-spell them with his one good eye. There was only one tunnel into the great chamber, and this he must have carved himself many hundreds of years ago. He might have been underground all that time, and gone mad from it, for there was certainly nothing sane about his behaviour._

_Before Whistler could do aught to dissuade the dragon further, or tried to reason with him, he rose up on his short, bowed legs and tipping back his head let out a jet of blue and yellow fire. It billowed forth in a furious gold torrent, scorching the ceiling of the chamber and sending forth clouds of steam where it touched upon the wet stone. The Family screamed and crouched low in the boats._

_Whistler drew her bow and shouted, "To arms!"_

_Then brave Isangrim drew his sword and Lyall his red studded shield. Vulfolaic raised his knives and Bjorg his toothed club. Daciana drew her bow and Bridle lifted her spear. They had no choice now. They would have to kill the dragon, or be killed by him._

_The two boats holding the children paddled furiously back into the mouth of the tunnel, as far as they could against the churning current, while the others charged forward toward the island. Their prows hit the stony shore and they leapt from them, some on two legs, some of four, all of them snarling savagely. Those with bows shot at the dragon's face to distract him, while those with spears aimed for his belly, looking for weak points. Others tried to hack at the dragon's legs, forcing him back._

_Enraged by this attack, the mad dragon reared back, twisting and curling his great length over and over until Whistler was sure he was going to tie himself in knots!_

_And yet despite the creature's anger, they could see that their attacks were only annoying him instead of causing injury. A new strategy was called for; as one, they drove him back and back, until he stood in the water of the lake. He roared at them and spewed more fire. Some were caught in its flames, and threw their skins away before they could burn. Others ran back across the island and threw themselves in the lake._

_Some fell, and did not get up again._

_Seeing this, Isangrim hefted his sword and with a snarl that rattled the bones and treasure heaped around him, leapt at the fell beast, catching one of the spines around its lower jaw and climbing around onto its neck. With all his strength, he attempted to drive his sword into the dragon's neck, just behind his skull._

_The scales were of course too strong and Isangrim's blade nearly bent with the effort, but the dragon felt it never-the-less and fell back against the wall with a shriek of outrage and pain._

_There was crack like thunder after a close lightning strike, like a thousand falling juggernauts, like an avalanche… and before the Hiskapær's astonished eyes, the wall of the chamber split in two places, so that a diamond-shaped slice of stone crumbled and tumbled away into the unknown, along with Isangrim and the still screaming dragon. Water from the lake gushed through the newly opened channel and rich desert sunlight pouring through onto the chamber's startled occupants._

_Crying out for Isangrim, Daciana rushed to the southern edge of the island and swam perilously close to the new opening. She clung to the wall of the chamber and peered into the daylight._

_Beyond the chamber there appeared to be only open sky. But Daciana looked down, and saw that level with the opening in the wall was a stone ledge, shaped like a deep bowl. The water was rapidly filling this, and as she watched, the overflow of the new pool cascaded over the edge, becoming a waterfall. With great care, and ignoring the protests of the Family watching her, Daciana swam through the channel and across the pool. The water washed over her as she gripped its edge…_

_From below a fountain of flame shot up, just missing Daciana and causing steam to rise from the waterfall. Gasping, the Storyteller looked over the lip of the pool to see the dragon, clinging to the slope that fell from the pool's edge, the waterfall gushing and turning the dusty sand and earth to mud around his feet. He trashed and screamed, Isangrim still determinedly gripping his neck._

_Behind Daciana, the rest of the Family's warriors were gathering, hanging onto the edge of the pool with her and trying to figure out how to get down to the beast and assist Isangrim._

_Above them, a cry sounded on the wind._

* * *

"Oh!" Frida said bouncing along beside Boromir and gripping his hand tightly. "Oh, I know who it is! I know! I _guessed_!"

"Shh," Boromir whispered, trying not to laugh, "wait and see. We must not spoil it for the others…"

* * *

_Whistler looked up from her place beside Daciana at the edge of the pool, and yes, there he was; Elidyr falling like a creature made of brass and gold from the sky. He spread his wings at the last second, talons reaching…_

_Whistler leapt up, balancing on the edge of the pool and reached up her arms…_

_Elidyr's talons closed over her arms and she was lifted clean into the air, clinging to the Eagle's legs as he flew high over the slope where the dragon thrashed._

"_His eyes," Elidyr called to her over the rushing of the wind. "You must plunge a blade into each of his eyes, as deep as you can. They are the only parts of him that are not armoured!"_

_And so saying he pinned his great wings to his sides and swooped low, flaring his wings at the last second and dropping Whistler, neat as you please, onto the snarling dragon's head. She nearly slipped on the creature's smooth scales, but there was Isangrim, gripping her arm to steady her._

"_The eyes," she called to him, quickly relating Elidyr's news to her fellow warrior. They drew sword, and flung themselves forward upon the top of the dragon's skull._

"_Together!" yelled Isangrim._

"_No!" screamed the dragon, seeing her blade._

"_NOW!" howled Whistler, and they drove their swords down. Her sword slid smoothly into the creature's working eye, while Isangrim's clove the scarred tissue covering the bad one._

_The dragon's death scream seemed to shatter the air, and afterward the silence was deafening._

_Whistler and Isangrim had a bare second to realize the dragon's body was falling beneath their feet, before there was a familiar rush of wind and feathers, and they were being scooped up by Elidyr and carried to the top of the slope..._

* * *

"Tell them about the bones," Rand said, bouncing his impressively bushy eyebrows and drawing 'bones' out into several sinister syllables.

"What bones?" Frida said, clinging to Boromir's arm.

"The one's in the cave?" Fen asked. "From the dragon's meals?"

"Oh, no," Runa murmured. "The _dragon's own_ bones."

* * *

_And so it was that the Family had found their lost oasis._

_The water spilling from the underground cave they channelled into the dusty soil at the foot of the slope and planted luxuriant desert flowers, and date palms, and aloe cactus._

_Meanwhile, the dragon's body was slowly burning itself up; the creature's own internal fires had been loosed and were consuming his remains from the inside out. All that were left were his bones, bright and white as freshwater pearls and completely unharmed by the flames. From these, the Family built the frame work of the Haram; the leg and wing bones to form its pillars, the spine its keystones and the ribs its arcing beams. Only the skull was left out of the main building._

_The Haram itself was built upon the top of the slope, so that it over looked the crescent of green that made up the gardens. Inside the Haram's forecourt, they dug down, creating an opening leading down into the dragon's chamber and set up a pulley lift from there to the island. Upon the island, they set the skull, and the two swords that slew it. And it is still there today._

* * *

"What about Elidyr?" Faola murmured. "And Whistler?"

Runa's eyes were sharp. "Ah," she said, "of those two very little is known or remembered, I am sorry to say. It _is_ known that the night after the slaying of the mad dragon, Elidyr came back to the Family to speak to Whistler, away from all others… But she returned to them alone, and would not speak to any save Managarm of what had passed between herself and the Eagle."

"Did he ever come back to the Family?" Boromir asked.

The Storyteller shook her head. "No, my dear. No, Elidyr was never seen again. But it is still good luck to us to see an Eagle. They still know the skinned from other wolves and take care not to harass us or reveal us to the unskinned."

"That is a blessing then," he murmured.

"Yes indeed."

* * *

The rest of the day passed uneventfully; they continued to walk in small knots, like clusters of beads strung along a thread. As before, talk was soft and singing softer, and their footfalls hardly heard at all.

Boromir continued to walk with Faola, Liadan and their children, listening to Runa continue to tell tales of the Hiskapær. The Family's history, he soon realized, was a rich and varied as any other people's, and at once tangled up in and strangely separate from the derr-doings of the 'unskinned' who made up the majority of the world's population. Some stories held reference points to wider histories, while other were insular and held the ring of family legend. Yet none stayed with him quite as much as the tale of the Haram Ze'ev.

Later, as they began to settle for the night and the hunters disappeared into the dusk to look for game, Boromir found himself sitting with Faola as she sat writing in a small book in her lap. The cover was of simple brown leather, with no title or embossing to give away its nature, but Boromir could see that all the text was not in Westron, as he might expect, but in Sindarin, one of the Elvish tongues.

She looked up then and caught the puzzled look he directed at her page. Boromir cleared his throat.

"Forgive me, I did not mean to…"

"It's quite alright," Faola said, smiling. "Come, sit." He did so and she murmured, "I was of the Dunadain, Boromir, we often write in Sindarin. Or at least, my family was in the habit of doing so."

"I had heard that. One of my company is – was," he muttered, catching himself, "was a Dunadan."

"Aragorn, son of Arathorn," Faola said softly. "King and Chieftain."

Boromir nodded, not surprised. Of course Faola would recognise one of her own people, especially that particular person.

"Faola," he said, "I must ask. Who amongst the Family knows of…what occurred on Amon Hen?"

She offered him a reassuring smile. "Sandric and I were the only witnesses, but Mahir had to be informed as Alfodr. No one else. The others know that you travelled with a company of…interesting characters, shall we say, but they have been told you were escorting the hobbits with you to safe haven in Minas Tirith. Although…"

Boromir looked up at her sharply. Faola sighed, closing her book.

"Boromir, you must not be surprised if Runa or Bright know more of your story than they have been told. Banner Bearers are a breed apart, even among the Family; their link with Máni makes them fey and rather more perceptive than some find comfortable. As for Storytellers… Runa will always know where there is a story to be told, and she will have an understanding of what that story is. It is the nature of their positions within the Hiskapær."

Before Boromir could reply, reeling a little from this information, a bright laugh sounded across their small clearing. He and Faola looked over, seeing Runa, Ylva, Fen and the children sitting with another young woman. She appeared to be Haradric, like Mahir and Altair, but her skin was perhaps a little fairer. She was quite lovely, hair a cascade of thick sable and her wide eyes lit up with a smile as she sang softly in between bouts of laughter. As she did, huge moths, some with wingspans as wide as Boromir's hand, fluttered out of the trees and scrub.

As Boromir watched, the moths made clumsy landings upon the girl's hands and hair and shoulder, flashing dark red and black eye spots as they beat their dusty wings. There were so many that late-comers alighted on Runa and the young ones, who laughed and gasped and held very still for these strange visitors.

"You remember Daciana, from the tale of the Haram," Faola said, not taking her eyes from the group.

"I do."

"Daciana was the first Storyteller. Máni found her as singing in an inn's common room, indentured there to pay for her father's debts. Máni freed her, skinned her, and with her skin gave Daciana the gift of speech with all Men and Beasts." Faola smiled. "It does not happen often, but sometimes the old talents shine through."

Boromir frowned at her. "Do you mean to say that…?"

Faola nodded. "Amaris wears Daciana's skin."

"_I can smell them, you know. Stories, I mean. Like wood smoke upon a winter breeze…"_

He looked up to find Amaris watching him through her cloud of moths. She offered him a small (knowing) smile, and as she did a light breeze blew through the clearing. It swept up a few of the moths, sending them dancing across the camp. One tumbled down and landed upon Boromir's left knee.

For a moment, he was surrounded by the scent of snow and woodsmoke.

* * *

**Big Honkin' Authorial Note: **

According the internet:

+ Elidyr is a Welsh name meaning "brass, bronze."

+ _Ghautt_ is Arabic for 'deep well'.

+ _Cerrig Siarad_ is Welsh for 'Speaking Stones'

+Amaris is a Hebrew name meaning 'God has said'.

And according to my lovely beta, _i quelta sarnë_ is Quenya (literal) for 'the speaking stony place', we figure this is probably the original name of the place, since it's been about for who knows how long, as have the Elves – for all we know, they could have put the things there.

Also, FYI:

**Daciana** (name is Romanian, meaning 'wolf') was the First Storyteller and lore mistress.

**Isangrim** (name is Norse, meaning 'grey-mask') wore a grey mask to hide the scars on his face.

**Vulfolaic** (name is Norse, meaning 'wolf-dancer') was sure of foot and a fine dancer. Máni wove stardust into his coat so that he could light the dark where no path could be found.

**Managarm** (name is Norse, meaning 'moon-hound' – was also another name for one of Odin's wolf companions, Hati) was the first Banner Keeper, Máni's skin-brother and had the power of foresight.

**Bjorg** (name is Norse, meaning 'rescuer, saviour') was the first Healer. Since then, if the Family's healer was male then his title was the Lord Bjor.

**Eira** (name is Norse, meaning mercy, help) was Bjorg's daughter. She was the healer after him and gave rise to the female healer's title, the Lady Eir.


	8. Spun

**AN:** uh, hi. I'm back. Kinda. As per usual, the only excuse for my absence that I can offer is Uni, although hopefully I'll be graduating this December, so wish me luck. At any rate, this fic will definitely be on my list for some TLC this summer (your winter if you're lurking north of the equator)…

Okay, so, in the book there's about a week between the breaking of the Fellowship and when Aragorn and Co get into Rohan and meet Gandalf, but in the movies its apparently a _few_ weeks, so I'm going to use that little plot-hole to flesh out Boromir's time growing into the Family.

* * *

**Spun**

In the days that followed, the Hiskapær continued their trek down the Anduin, and Boromir began to know his new family more and more.

It was similar and yet utterly different from his journey with the Fellowship and any military campaign he had been on with his brother and his men. In both instances, there was a sense of closeness, of loyalty and near kinship with his companions, especially when he journeyed with Faramir.

The Hiskapær were something else entirely. The feeling of kinship was tenfold and almost instant. He cared a great deal about these almost-strangers; was deeply invested in their well-being, especially that of the children…and so he did what protective family members have been doing for children for centuries.

He protected them, and better, he began to teach them how to protect themselves.

"In order to move yourself, Caerwyn, you must first move your feet."

They had stopped for the day – early this time, to keep the children from tiring – and so Boromir was giving a fencing lesson.

Caerwyn gave him a doubtful look. Over the past few days Boromir had learned this was something of a default expression for Caer, who had been teased most of his young life and years later was still getting used to being treated seriously. He was not much of a fighter, and preferred to help with the younger children, or work with Rand at his pack-away forge. He hero-worshipped Fen, though, and since Fen wanted to learn how to use a sword, so did Caer.

"Like this," Boromir said now, and gestured for Fen to join him. They faced each other, hastily carved wooden play-swords in hand. Boromir could see Fen swaying very gently, testing his own balance.

"Watch our footwork, all of you."

Four pairs of eyes obediently adhered to he and Fen's boots. Boromir tilted his head to the boy, and the bout began.

They circled each other, eyeing each other's movements, looking for an opening. As expected, Fen struck first, aiming for Boromir's deliberately unguarded side. Boromir twisted quickly, parrying the blow and using the thwarted momentum to push Fen back, forcing the boy to step quickly to keep his balance. Fen, far from put out, grinned at the rebuke and they circled again. Several quick bouts followed, both men making sure to stay quick on their feet, sidewinding and darting, bracing and stepping while the children watched, awed.

When they drew to a stop – Boromir neatly disarming Fen by rushing in and locking their cross guards and twisting the play-sword out of the boy's hand – both were breathing a little hard and covered in a light sheen of sweat, grinning.

It felt good, Boromir thought, sparring with someone of talent, although…there was something else; something like the glow of pride he had felt instructing Merry and Pippin in their sword drills.

"Footwork, children, you must always be mindful of your footwork." He smiled and saluted to Fen, lifting the hilt of his downturned sword to him. Fen grinned and saluted back. "For the most part, Fen was able to match me, blow for blow, not because he was quick with his sword – although you were, well done – but because he was able to manoeuvre to avoid or meet my attacks. Where your feet go, so will you be. Quick feet make you a harder target."

The children nodded, and he spent the rest of the afternoon pairing them off for gentle sparring sessions and showing them how to 'dance'. Fen was a good assistant; as light on his feet as any hobbit and quick as the proverbial fox.

Teaching was not something Boromir had done often; opportunities had been limited to Faramir when they were small together and the hobbits when time allowed. But he enjoyed it, had always enjoyed it.

And now it seemed he would be doing a lot more of it.

* * *

Later that night, he sat with Mahir on watch duty beside the remains of the cook fire. Around them, on the cusp of audibility, they could hear the night scouts pacing around the perimeter and using imitations of fox yelps to signal each other. Periodically, one of them would report back to Mahir before either waking their relief or melting back into the shadows.

"You have done well, you know," Mahir murmured from the other side of the fire during one of the quiet moments between reports.

"Your pardon?" Boromir said, looking up, puzzled.

Mahir smiled.

"When you first came to us," he explained. "You sometimes seemed uncertain of your role amongst us and now…"

He tipped his head towards where the children were cuddled together in their cloaks and blankets, surrounded on all sides by kith and kin. Fáelán still clutched his play-sword in one chubby fist.

Boromir felt himself flush a little.

"It is not much."

"Teaching children is of graver importance than many think," Mahir said solemnly. "Our teachers shape us from the moment we come into the world." His gaze became sharp, curious. "Some would simply have dedicated themselves to protecting, but you took it a step further."

This time it was Boromir who smiled.

"I believe there is a saying about catching a man a fish or teaching him how to fish for himself."

"Ah yes, they have that one in Harad too, though not much is done about it."

Boromir looked a question at him and Mahir shrugged.

"The last time we frequented the South, they were mostly consumed with trade – or what passes for trade." He sighed, "Slavery is still a problem in the cities; the Corsairs do not plague Gondorian lands any longer, but the coastal towns of Near Harad…"

He shook his head and the sadness on his face drove Boromir's gaze to the ground.

"They can barely defend themselves," Mahir murmured, "let alone teach their children to do so."

For a time they were silent, listening to the night move around them. Here, between the arms of the Entwash, the copse sheltering them was strangely silent. There were traces of Orcs, a week old at most, but they were not here now.

"And we will not wait for them to return," Mahir had told the Family earlier that day. "In two days' time we will enter the disputed lands between Gondor and Mordor. We must be in the habit of swift movement and even swifter defence."

The older children wore daggers under their shirts now, and even the littlest ones had knives pinned to the insides of their cloaks.

Somewhere to the west, a sharp yelp sounded, and to the north came an answering cry. _All is well_, they said, _all is calm_.

"Mahir," Boromir began, "forgive me if this is impertinent but…how did you and Altair come to be part of the Hiskapær?"

Mahir looked at him for a moment, eyes deep and dark and unknowable as a foreign sky, before he nodded to himself and began to speak.

"Altair and I are Haradrim, you know this, but we were highborn in our land; war princes, raised to lead our tribe against raids on our lands or to lead raids into the lands of others."

"That is what Altair meant," Boromir murmured, "when he said you were well-mantled."

Mahir nodded. "I was young, then, but I was very good at my given task. Both of us were, though as the elder I was destined to lead. Altair is a great warrior, but he was hasty, fiery in his youth; then, he would strike first and question later. My father and his lieutenants favoured my caution and level-head."

His eyes appeared black in the low light, liquid and lost.

"At the time civil war was rife throughout the tribes. War has few laws in the deeper South, especially amongst the outer tribes. There is only the might of Mordor to be feared, and that does not encourage honour amongst men.

"I have done things, many things, in my time as a war prince that I will regret and mourn for the rest of my days as one of the skinned."

Mahir sighed, tilting his head up and listening for a moment for the sound off. _All is calm, all is well…_

"But, as to how Altair and I came to run under Máni's banner…" he said, smiling a little, and Boromir was glad of it; he knew war and the pain that memory of it could bring. "Well, I suppose we have Altair's fiery youth to blame for it.

"We were leading a campaign against another tribe – the dry season was coming, and our crops were not enough to sustain our people, even if people starved their slaves and butchered half their livestock. It was not a good year for the Nāgá people.

"Altair and I led a raid against the Tha'lab, the fox people, only to be met with a desert castle locked tight and prepared for an extended siege. We were there for a fortnight, trying to break or scale their walls, but to no avail. On the last day…"

"You need not go on," Boromir said quietly.

"I am alright," Mahir murmured, offering a small smile. "It is simply that some things you do not forget. Some memories do not diminish. In this case, they remain fixed as they ever were; we were retreating – breaking camp and readily for the march home empty-handed – when the Tha'lab forces spilled out of their fortress under the cover of night. There were more men that that tribe had ever possessed, far too many good soldiers. We learned later that the Tha'lab chieftain's daughter had eloped with the second Ibn Awa war prince; they had married in secret, killed both their fathers and united their armies.

"We stood no chance.

"The only path left to us was flight, and flee we did. What remained of our forces made our way into the desert, but our supplies were meagre at best. The men began to squabble over rations, and then, when the water began to run low, they began to kill for them.

"On the seventh day, Altair saw a man trying to take a water-skin from one of his runners. The boy fell as the skin was pulled from his grasp and Altair promptly stepped forward and threatened to slit the man's throat."

Mahir sighed, the sound low with remembered weariness.

"I remember fighting my way through the crowd that had gathered to watch them grapple and seeing them draw apart as they drew their knives. The man Altair fought – I cannot even recall his name – was quicker and he made to strike Altair in the chest.

"I got in the way."

Boromir stared. "He stabbed you."

Mahir nodded. "The blade, I was told later, miraculously caught on my ribs and very nearly punctured my lung. If it had, I would not be here now."

"How _are_ you here now?" Boromir asked. "How did the Family find you in that desert?"

Mahir smiled again, a bright flash of teeth.

"Are you forgetting the tale of the Haram, my friend? After I was injured, the men mutinied. Altair's attacker claimed my title for himself and left me for dead. Altair, of course, would not leave me and so we were stranded in the sands with naught but the clothes on our backs and the knives in our hands. Altair still had his bow and a few arrows, for all the good it did us – there was no game to be had – and I still had my water-skin hidden under my cloak.

"I spent most of the time in a delirium from the infection festering in the knife wound, but Altair told me that we were found by Ivar and Cinder as they hunted. They brought back Samara and Sandric and Faola. Samara was healer then… but she had only one skin – her husband, Faro's skin. He foresaw his own death, you see, and named his successor on his deathbed, three years before. Samara knew my name before it was told to her.

"She told Altair that I would have to become part of the Family, and forsake all warmongering.

"She told him I would be going down a road that he could not follow…and Altair said only 'Save him.'"

There was a moment of quiet. Boromir sat very still and tried to process what he was hearing.

He knew, academically, that becoming one of the Hiskapær meant giving up one's former life…but it had not occurred to him that there were those who had been saved by their skinning while others of their family lived…ones who had to make the choice for the dying and decide whether they could live with their loved one being alive but forever apart from them.

He wondered, morbidly, if he could have made the choice that Altair did; if he could have stood to give up Faramir, knowing that he would go on living and yet in all likelihood never lay eyes on him again.

Because, ultimately, that was what would have happened. The Hiskapær was such a fragile existence, dependant on secrecy for its survival. Their strength – their shape-changing – was also their weakness, since they could not afford to reveal themselves and have their Family and heritage stolen from them by the power-hungry like Saruman the White, or even Sauron himself.

Boromir wondered, but in his heart he knew the truth.

He would have said the same.

_Save him._

"As would I," Mahir murmured, and Boromir realized he must have spoken the last thought aloud. "If we are lucky, my friend, we will never have to make a decision like that. It is what I pray for, every day."

Boromir nodded.

"And I. And yet…if there was only one skin, how is Altair amongst us today?"

Mahir smiled, and this time it was perhaps a little sadder, and a little bitter.

"_Samara_," he said, tone reverent. "Samara skinned me, and then she named her successor and gave up her skin for Altair, that he might never again know the pain of losing his brother.

"That was the day Faola became the Lady Eir. Altair was the first person she ever skinned."

It was like a hammer blow.

_She gave up her skin…_

This apparently healthy, hale woman had given up such a great treasure, _a family_, so that a stranger would not lose what was left of his. This, Boromir could not imagine doing; his love for these people was already _so_ strong…he could not fathom willingly giving them up.

"What happened to her?" he found himself asking, voice hoarse. "How could she go on…?"

Mahir shook his head.

"That I do not know; Samara is perhaps the strongest woman I ever met. But…she came into the Hiskapær after losing her two small boys. Mayhap she saw them reflected in Altair and I…I cannot truly say. But she lives, Boromir. She made herself the guardian of the Haram Ze'ev; she is its care-taker, and lives there even when the Family is away. Altair and I took the name Ze'ev as our own in her honour."

He smiled warmly.

"She dotes on Altair when she sees him. You will laugh to see how she spoils him."

In his head, Boromir pictured Altair having his cheeks pinched by a tiny, stalwart woman, much the same way he and Faramir suffered the attentions of their elderly female relatives, and found himself laughing.

"That I cannot doubt, my friend."

* * *

He was running, paws pounding against the forest floor, flying over the undergrowth with every mile-eating stride.

It was night, and all was dark. Woodlands – strange, familiar – passed him in a blur of bracken brown and bower green. Overhead the stars burned white and blue and gold and he thought he could hear them, hear their distant singing, their aching cries to him losing definition over the span that divided them.

Behind him came the strike of boots upon the earth, crushing twigs and shrubs underfoot, upright shoulders pushing through low branches and brambles, rhythmic breathing shorter and sharper than his own.

He ran and ran, but his pursuer never slowed.

He heard his own blood thunder in his ears, heard his own breathing like a metal rasp over rough wood.

Then he heard the creak of a bow being drawn, the whisper of a loosed arrow –

He dodged too late, and pain burned like cold fire along his right shoulder.

He stumbled and fell, feeling his other shape fall from him also, so that he lay prone and paralysed beneath his cloak. He heard footsteps, the approach of the hunter, felt the cloak being drawn from his face and shoulders and heard a hitch in the other's breath.

Then the hunter's hood fell back.

"No…"

* * *

Faramir woke in the dark with sweat sheening his brow and his eyes fixed, unseeing, upon the rough stone ceiling of Henneth Annûn bowed overhead.

The last moments of the dream played out again across the backs of his eyes.

The flight of the arrow.

The fall of the wolf.

Dying eyes looking back at him.

"Boromir…"

* * *

**AN:** _Nāgá_ is the Sanskrit word for 'cobra'; _tha'lab_ is the Arabic word for 'fox' (or one of them, anyway, according to Wikipedia's entry on fennec foxes, it's 'fanak'.) _Ibn awa_ is Arabic for 'jackal'.

_Caerwyn_ is a Welsh name meaning 'white fort'.

_Ivar_ is Norse meaning 'bow warriors; archers'.

_Samara_ is Arabic meaning 'guardian or protected by God; night talk'. Samarra is also an Iraqi city and home to the Great Mosque of Samarra, as well as featuring in the story 'Appointment in Samarra' where a man inadvertently goes to meet Death.

_Faro_ is derived from old English, "Faron" meaning 'handsome servant'

Also, there is in all likelihood some serious artistic licence going on with my interpretation of life in the Harad – my research there is all internet based, yo.


End file.
